South of the Bay, the Spanish woman.
        Rose stopped to watch her and when she moved again Rose was not the same.
        She was never to be the same, but she had not known it and she could not stop herself from stopping.
        The Spanish woman wore black in dress and lace she adorned her curving flesh in black while her black hair shining with blue like lightning whirled about her, across her shoulders, caressed her lifted breasts as she danced with slender arms raised and fingers elegantly limning the smoke and candles and guitars which nested her upon the heavy wooden table where she danced fiercely, silently, and never laughed until the dance concluded.
        Black shoes, black boots, she had them both, but she danced barefoot and men kissed the boards where her toes had been.
        The Spanish woman's eyes large and black burned with fires unkown till then to Rose such fires ignited in her knowing them she knew them instantly and inner fires leapt fueled to meet the igneous nature who danced, laughed, drank, brought down with cutting acid epithets any who taunted her with desires, and smoked cigarillos.
        "I knew a woman once who smoked these," Rose commented puffing a pillar of smoke upwards. The film became silver when it reached the sun.
        "Tell me," Cleo said. She rose upon 1 elbow with her cigar held in her teeth.