Fandango
I saw a silouetto of a man doing the fandango and was immediately immersed in rapsodies of bohemian proportions. Scaramouche was his name, a lively little fellow with pointy beard, heroic moustache and keen, impish eyes. I watched as he danced wildly on the tables with increasing, joyful intensity and reckless cacophony. A host of flickering shadows danced with him and I longed to join them, to cast away all restraint and to leap about with similar abandon.
But I didn’t – my dance is done.
that last line makes the reader sigh with the understanding this piece was pure enjoyment.