"...The guys just wanted to give him a good thrashing as a lesson," he assured her, "don't worry, they won't kill him."
The scar-faced brute grew impatient and slapped the dancer's behind, urging her to hurry up and do as told.
After accepting the hooligans' payment, the dancer thought about how the money would spare her several days of work and suppressed her unease.
Beneath the moonlight, the shadowy figures in the alley ended their brief conversation, and the dancer turned to face the entrance of the tavern, composing herself.
She ascended the steps, pushed open the door, and with a shy yet captivating look on her face, approached the melancholic poet.
"Sir, your singing is like a spring breeze crossing my heart. Wouldn't you like to compose some wonderful melodies with me tonight?"
The dancer boldly took the poet's arm and bluntly expressed her desire, her cheeks aflame.
