Your Turn
I was sitting here, thinking about what to blog about, when I started to wonder why I should be the one to write this blog all the time. Yeah, I know it's my blog, if you want to get technical about it. But don't I deserve a break sometimes? And if there were ever a week I needed a break, it'd be this one.
So it's your turn to do this.
Got your pens typing fingers out? Because here's how we're rolling: I'm posting a picture, and you're going to write about it. A story, an essay, a sentence—whatever you want.
Here's your picture:
The best entry gets something special from moi. Seriously. So get to it.
La Misteriosa
He's late. Again.
Annoyed, she leans forward on her tiptoes. No man has ever dared to keep her waiting. No man until him.
She searches for him amongst the hordes of adorers at her feet. She sees Tomás, who pledged to bring her a finch for every kiss she bestowed on him. True to his word, he has one in a cage, at the ready. She wrinkles her nose. After two she decided they were too messy—the birds and his kisses.
There's Ramón with his notebook and pen, scribbling. As always. She would give him a fond smile if she weren't so peeved. Ramón and his sweet imagination, writing poetry to her beauty. A man of words, but not so much of action. And she definitely likes action.
Ah—dark, brooding Carlos, partially hidden in a corner, separate from the rest. He watches her with that gaze that used to make her shiver in anticipation. But that was all he did: watch, smoldering in her general direction.
In the center, there's José Christian, with his paintbrush and steady hand. She can tell that he paints another fileteado sign dedicated to her, like the one she stands over. She remembers one time when he used her body as the canvas. He still claims that was his masterpiece.
But of him for whom she waits? No sign.
She exhales, expelling her irritation. How many times has he kept her waiting? Three? Eleven? Twenty-seven? Once is too many. What will he bring this time to make up for his inattention? A trinket? A shiny bauble to dangle from her neck? She has plenty of things. What she wants is intangible and much more precious. Is he the one to give it to her?
She has doubts.
But still she waits, because the doubts are entwined with hope. And for hope, she can be patient—at least for a few moments longer.
Wanted
They say she's a thief.
They say she steals hearts.
She would disagree. She'd say that she didn't take anything that didn't want to be taken. She'd say those hearts were given to her, free and clear. Then she'd give you her wide-eyed, innocent look, and you'd eagerly agree that "they" must be delusional.
She's a creature of the night, but never in the shadows. She's sweet. She's crafty. Beguiling and bewitching. When she struts onto the dance floor, you know she owns it. She crooks her finger and her chosen partner comes running, desperate to lead her, even if it's just for one song. Her attitude captivates, her grace mesmerizes. One song, and you're lost.
How do I know? I've been there. One song, and she had me. She knew it too. She graced me with that little smile—the one that feels like it's aimed right at your heart—and I haven't been the same since.
Then the song was over and, with a flick of her saucy heel, she walked on, leaving me alone in the crowd, helplessly watching her select her next victim.
If you see her, be wary.
If you see her, tell her I miss her.