The Director's Cut Js Taylor (e reader comics .txt) 📖

It seems like nothing out of the ordinary. Which from what I know of James, is not his style at all.

I take a scan around. There is a clutch of low tables, each with a wine bottle bearing a candle. A few diners are enjoying tapas style dishes.

I notice that the dress is conspicuously smarter than usual. The men are mostly suited. And the women wear evening dresses. But aside from the formal dress, it all seems very average.

Maybe James just wanted us to go to a typical, local place for once.

But something tells me that’s not the answer.

“Can I get you a drink?” James asks, approaching the bar.

“Sure.”

“Cold sherry? I’m told it’s the drink to start with in Spain.”

I smile at him. “Technically, we’re in Catalan,” I say with a smile, “so we should be drinking Cava.”

“I’m impressed by your local knowledge.” He grins.

I shrug. “I came to Spain a lot as a child. The Catalan distinction is a big deal here. You can accidentally insult someone in Barcelona by calling them Spanish.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

James orders two glasses of Cava, and we both sip the sparkling wine, staring out into the wider restaurant.

“Can you guess why we’re here?” says James, after a moment.

“No. I have absolutely no idea.”

“Let’s go to our table,” says James. “It starts in a few minutes.”

“What starts?”

He doesn’t answer, and instead, takes my hand to lead me to one of the low tables. But I’m already working it out.

“It’s a flamenco bar?” I guess.

James nods as we take our seats.

“I didn’t think they had them in Barcelona,” I murmur. “Flamenco is a southern Spanish thing.”

I’m not sure how I should feel about this. I do love to watch flamenco. But it feels like a private thing to me. I’m not sure I want to watch it with James.

“I had difficulty finding a place with real talent,” admits James. “I’m assured the dancers here could rival those in Madrid.”

Personally, I doubt that. But I do have my own national bias. My mother’s family is from Madrid.

Plates of smoked almonds and green olives are laid in front of us, and James orders two beers.

The drinks have barely been brought to the table when the seated diners descend into a hush.

I turn my head to see what is undoubtedly the star attraction.

A tall, slim woman has entered the room. Her raven black hair is slicked back into an impeccable bun, with styled curls arranged around her face. At the back, a festoon of white silken flowers flow towards her neck.

Her eyes are heavy, lidded with dark make-up, and her lips are a slash of bright scarlet.

She wears a deep red dress, which is tight on the body and ornamented with drifts of black lace around the arms and shoulders. At the bottom, her dress explodes in a flowing cascade of ruffled fabric, like a frothing river of red.

I feel my heart make a little leap.

This was what first inspired me to dance flamenco. As a little girl, I was stunned by the dramatic beauty of the dancers. I loved the accent of the dark hair and pale skin, and of course, I wanted to wear the flamenco dress.

My mother borrowed money to buy my first dancing dress, and I adored it so much, I never wanted to take it off.

“I take it you like to watch flamenco?” asks James.

I turn to see his eyes are dancing. My expression must have been a picture, staring after the dancer, lost in my own thoughts.

“Yes,” I say. “I like to watch it.”

“But not with me?” guesses James, picking up on the tone of my voice.

I sigh. “I don’t know. I’ve watched a lot,” I add, “to improve my own dancing. Flamenco always seem a strange paradox to me. In some ways, it’s an intensely private, personal dance. In other ways, it’s a public outpouring of grief. Maybe that’s why I like it so much.”

James is looking at me, fascinated.

“You’ll see what I mean,” I add. “If she’s good.”

The dancer has reached the middle of the floor now, and there is a boom of sound as the first dramatic bars of the music echo out.

The dancer stands rigid, one arm swept upwards, her eyes fixed. Every muscle in her body is unmoving.

I know from experience how hard it is to achieve that stillness. James has chosen well, I realise. She is good.

Instantly, the bar is silent. Then the music quietens out, weaving a disarming new tempo, and slowly, the dancer begins to curve and sway.

My eyes move to her face.

Her face. She’s got it.

The dancer’s expression is so deep in loss and pain. Her mouth is taught with grief, her eyes heavy in mourning.

Her hand spins gracefully at the wrist, like a swirl of water. Then her other hand follows, and her torso sways with the rhythm. It’s enchanting. Mesmerising, to watch.

I remember my own practice. The dedication needed to weave those graceful loops and circles.

Without meaning to, I turn my own hand at the wrist, keeping time to the music.

My mouth is chanting the silent pace to the dancer. I almost feel as though I am part of her as she collapses forward and spins upwards again, her feet stamping to the music.

Her back is curved, upright, proud. But her face is lost, alone and full of devastation. The contrast is so incredibly moving. It’s the pride which so many women bear, every day, through loss and grief.

My eyes burn with sudden tears.

I feel a surge of feelings and memories rising up.

I close my eyes, trying to ride it out, but the flamenco music continues to lance at me, even with the dancer out of view.

I feel James squeeze my hand, and the pain in my heart lessens.

I open my eyes to look at James. His face is stricken, and his eyes are bright.

My hand is warm in his. And suddenly, I feel safer to let the tears flow down my cheeks and lose