Caracas Caliente
"Venezuelan-Caribbean dancer Xiomara heats up Caracas nightclubs with her moves, but when DJ Jason from London comes to film a documentary, she shows him Latin fire burns brightest when shared."
The club pulsed. Xiomara was its heartbeat.
Jason watched through his camera, mesmerized. She was thick and fluid, dark skin gleaming under strobes, moving in ways that defied physics.
"Yuh filming mi?" she asked during break.
"Documentary. Caribbean dance culture."
"Yuh want to understand it? Put down the camera. Dance with mi."
She taught him reggaeton, salsa, moves he'd never seen. Her thick body guiding his, patient with his awkwardness.
"Feel the music," she instructed. "Not here." She touched his head. "Here." She touched his chest. "And here." Lower.
"I'm feeling a lot of things."
"Good. That's the point."
The documentary required more footage. Required more nights. Required her.
"Yuh leaving soon?" she asked one evening.
"My flight's in three days."
"Then we not waste time." She pulled him from the club. "Mi show yuh real Venezuelan heat."
Real heat was her apartment, her body, her fire.
"Yes! Jason! Right there!"
That thick body moving like she was still dancing, rhythms he'd never known existed, pleasure as choreographed as any routine.
"Harder! Match mi beat!"
He matched it. Exceeded it. Found his own rhythm with her.
"The documentary," she gasped after.
"Will be amazing. Because of you."
"Yuh coming back to finish filming?"
"I'm coming back for you."
The documentary won festivals. Jason's return won him Xiomara.
Now he films Caribbean dance worldwide.
She stars in every frame.
On camera and off.
Caracas caliente.
Still burning.
Always burning.