She eats figs like candy, and little spider webs of her saliva leave a trail between her mouth and her silver cup as she spits out the fruit’s stones.
Her movements are underwater-slow, and the rest of us watch from the sand above as if she were a mermaid, a dolphin, a sea serpent. When she rises from her seat she brushes clouds of black hair away from her alabaster face, and when her red lips part slightly I could swear that I saw tiny white fangs flashing.
Her dance grows darker, and men and women both secretly vow to give her whatever it is she wants. As long as she keeps dancing, as long she keeps licking her red lips and closing her green eyes and moving her full hips to the drums that beat ferociously in the corner.
Of course what she wants is our heads. Our bodies. She wants us in a pile, helpless beneath her delicate feet. And we promise her that.