Her hands were for the most part a blur and only stopped once every breath to show you their impeccable grace. Around her, six unruly men, staring at her closed eyes through the smear of skin colour her hands were making. They were shut, those eyes, but behind the lowered eyelids it was impossible to miss the blossoming emotion that impregnated every hand-gesture with meaning.

The men were amused; nothing much else. Blind men who did not know that beauty created from the soul is not disposed to wait for mere mortals to appreciate it; that she did not see those cheeky jaws peeping out from behind their sneering lips; that she was unable to give a damn. Her concentration was complete; her meditation was divine. She was the professional, surrounded sadly by amateurs who would never know the soaring elation of the state she so easily ascended to. The consummate professional; consumed by passion.
When she opened her eyes, she did not see the men. She collected her things and went to the stage where she would enrapture hundreds with the very movements she had just revised. The men on the other hand would jump, scream, whirl and bustle around the stage, yet the audience would not consider a yawn worth the effort.

The woman, and her nimble hands, and her sentient fingers, and her deep eyes: those are the things that make the theatre ignite with energy. Those are the things that make life ignite with electricity.



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