My name is Eleanora Barosa and I was born in 1605. I married Alfonso, a soldier, and we moved from Granada to Brindisi in 1621.
The people round here called me the flamenca as I could be found singing and dancing as I went about my chores in the castle.
I loved the gypsy dance it reminded me of home. It coursed through my blood, rising from my soles pulsing in my throat.
Each note a journey, memories of grandma, of tales of evil spirits making music and dancing like birds breaking chains.
“Evil spirits” she’d whisper, “their voices like fire, dancing as shadows igniting desire”.
One night a light touch on my shoulder. Giovanni Horlanto, known as the flamenco. Our dancing awakened our deepest desires.
In stolen moments away from prying eyes we danced every chance, our music unyielding, our bodies bent to one another's grace.
In April 1636 my health gives way and I die, Giovanni follows me in October and if you look around this small church you will find us together, at last.
Beautiful prose, and that's what Gypsy love is: free, expansive, eternal. Well done, my friend. Blessings.
P.S. I'm sure my dear friend will come across this comment and give me a little nudge with a downvote.
Thank you for a lovely comment. Upvoted.