oscar wilde

Long day at the office. It had felt like. He walked towards home down Diesyocho, with a slightly leaden step. Near the Plaza Entrevera, he heard music. A band was playing in front of the café there. Fully amped up. Playing to the café and a few people, maybe thirty, who’d gathered too watch. He stopped. A couple of drunks, one seemingly Peruvian, were dancing. Then a couple of short-haired girls turned up and joined in, dancing with mochillas on their backs. An older man and his stout partner appeared, and danced a fluid neo-salsa, their grace belying their age. The ragged company smiled at the dancers. A few kids couldn’t help bopping. The band played songs which the crowd knew. He recognised one by Charly Garcia. El Fantasma de Canterville. More drunken men appeared, middle aged, absurd, parodies of Hunter S Thompson, doing dance moves they should not have been capable of. In the bar, a dozen affluent looking girls, hair singing, sang along. Outside the crowd smiled. They appreciated the dancers. The effort they made. The night was young. Too young for most to dance. But those that did were appreciated. His heart smiled.

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