“See ya tomorrow!” a young woman called over her shoulder as she left the “Kioko Café”. Throwing her handbag over her shoulder she proceeded down the street, towards the philharmonic. As usual she would take the shortcut through the park to get home. She liked the calm and the stone hewn benches that sometimes inspired her dances. Her boots sounded surreal in her ears as she left the pavement and stepped onto the gravelled path leading through the park. Something was oddly off today. Choro didn't feel like herself. Frustration took hold of her and so she dug in her bag in search for her lipstick and hand help mirror. The dark stained her already perfectly coloured lips once more. A short correction with her middle finger and she let her utensils glide back into the bag.

Choro froze in her tracks. Was that music she was hearing? Following the foreign sound she soon came to a bench and a young man. Seemingly he was the one creating the music . . . and an image of some sort. Feeling the blood rush faster through her veins the dark haired woman let her bag fall to the ground next to the musician as the rhythm took over control of her body. Throwing her arms up and her head back she let the bass ripple through her body, move her hips and shoulders, making her sway until she felt in synch with all of it. Moving to the bass she let her chest circle, throwing herself upward, backward . . . falling, a smile on her lips she extended a hand to catch herself and land on her feet. Using the momentum she spun, kicking off the ground in a pirouette, dancing to her hearts extent until the music stopped and she stood there, breathing heavily, looking into the sky, a childish smile on her darkened lips.