The woman was stabbing the floor with the stiletto heels of shoes the color of steel. The toes of the shoes were open, and her nails flashed blood. The beaten floors of the old dance hall were warmed by the strings of tiny white lights that hung from the ceiling like glowing vines. The man led her in a deep sacada that forced her legs around his. Again and again. It was the urgently longing part of Pasional, and the other dancers opened a space around them. People sat and turned to watch.
'They're dancing as though they hate each other,' I said. "They're furious.'
'Just so,' said La Porteña. 'You can always tell when someone is about to have an affair.'
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