Long and complicated arpeggio like a sigh that leaves you breathless. It unleashes great skill and eases the natural talent of a man who loves his music and his guitar.

His hand slides with such weightlessness and speed that no voice gets on his cavalcade. A harmony that is lost among an audience unable to distinguish between a sonata or a ballad.

Mela (the Gypsy), in his arrangement, accompanies the Bailaora (Flamenco dancer), who, inspired, leads the beat of her heels in the “Tablao Flamenco” (floorboard) when vast sound brings him back to reality, an empty glass hits a nearby table; asking for more rum.

Mela opens his eyes to see that one of the bar's most frequent drunks and a fan of singing, staggers near them, this one strongly interrupts the Bailaora holding her by one arm.

The drunk man -Where is she?

The gypsy gets up, his look says it all, without losing control of his hand at all, he lowers the volume of the strings, he knows intuitively that it refers to her.

Continues -Yes...

Says the impertinent, approaching the woman's face and completely ignoring the guitarist, knowing that he has completely captured his attention. He confesses, drunk.

Continues —A gypsy like her, she is not left alone for long. She is a filly that many would like to ride bareback.

Bavol; An experienced bartender and owner of the place, watches them from afar and gives Mela an implacable look that says; nor dare to bother the one who is called the best client of the place; Don Márquez, the one who pays for all the broken dishes and bills.

The Bailaora breaks free when the waitress arrives to fill the spender's glass, the drunk approaches the Bailaora again, seeing Mela's face directly.

—Come beauty!... You won't be Samara, but for now, you, console me.

The music stops abruptly and is dissonant giving way to the bustle, descending into silence. A brief tension is generated between the two for a few moments, with the raised hand of Don Márquez who toasts again to calm Mela's spirits. The gypsy stretches his neck and prepares to continue playing and lets the drunken voice enter his ears;

-Cuckold...

At that very moment, he shuts up when he sees the skill of the gypsy as he raises his guitar to nail it to his head, Bavol surprises Mela from behind, knocking him to the ground and dragging him outside.

Bavol -Go away, Mela!... Find your wife and get out! I can't afford another racket... Who pays for all this? You?... Get out!

For a moment, Mela loses sight of who he is talking to and lunges at him, but he feels a pang right in her chest so strong and painful that he falls to his knees trying to catch his breath. After a few moments, he manages to get up and go in the opposite direction.

Little by little his thoughts sharpen and he begins his fast walk, a premonition tells him that the indolent Márquez may be right. A feeling, an ailment numbs and descends throughout your body until you stop breathing. He takes a deep breath and takes advantage of the counter-effort to run at full force, his house is just a few miles away.

Images come to his forehead - the tips of silky black hair brush his face. You can smell it; this distracts him from the pain of the body in such energetic movement, he almost touches the image of his beloved Samara; who runs in the orchard playing, delights seeing such a slender silhouette, a voluptuous woman, with black and intense eyes. She sends him a kiss with her hands, released from her lips, and says;

Samara -Love you.

The gypsy loses track of time, a tear runs down his cheek and brings him back from the mirage. Already in the middle of the road, in an isolated desert, he sees a very old mobile home in the distance. Under the mid-afternoon sun and weary, he keeps moving his body towards her, faithfully hoping that all this is nothing more than a nightmare.

Nearing his end, thousands of little moments hit him in the face to remind him how much he loves his Samara.

-His first look hidden behind a tree so that his mother would not see them, was just a daring and mischievous girl, who captivated him at first.

-Their first kiss, surprising him from behind by grabbing her waist and pulling her to his chest, dropping a basket. Her soft, warm lips permit him to share the rest of their lives.

Another stitch in his chest knocks him to the ground and he realizes that he only has a few steps left to reach the door. He feels his chest split when he raises his face to see out of the corner of his eye a figure that is lost in the distance, he attempts to distinguish someone. He knows someone was in the house.

Rage takes over his body and gives him back the strength to enter the house with violence. He opens the door, hoping to get the most unwanted sight a man in love could bear. Fear invades his entire being, and in an empty room, the sound of his heart overflows and wants to come out of his mouth.

He opens the door ready to do the inevitable, but only an empty, untouched bed gives him back his breath. He drops into the chair to recover for a moment, he wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve to realize that there is an open letter. He takes it and begins to read it without any consolation:

 “Today I did not resist anymore and decided to write you,

What I feel…

I love you,

I love you,

I don't want to wait,

I can't anymore...

Run away with me and

I'll take you to heaven.

I'm serious.

MM.”