.She wanted to dance with them. They didn't want to dance; it was enough to look at her. They stared at her. Without being ashamed at all, on how to, they were looking at her, or what they shot their eyes upon.

Around 60 years old eyes were watching her movements. Many eyes and silent communication. I was watching them watching. She was wearing a short, very low-cut dress. One man was singing in a microphone and another man handled a mixer in behind.

The girl was always dancing in the front meanwhile they, the band, walked slowly back and through in the bar, singing. Like a team. They were young like the girl and wore normal clothes.

We ordered Stella-beers. We didn't know exactly how it all was arranged, it was a bit confusing, but the music was good. Dance hall, but in Arabic.

We watched and I did some sound editing.

We, with backgrounds and perspectives elsewhere, who enjoyed it as tourists, we who were the others here, were sitting with our eyes wide opened. Taking notes with the gaze.

Money was spread over us, over the table; it belonged to the show.

Her focus was the men. She was dancing for them, wanted make them to dance with her. She was brought up on a chair, beside our table.

She danced on it in her high heels. Another man was standing on his knees beneath her, dancing with his back close to the floor.

They were staring. We were staring.

We were taking pictures, lots of pictures, pretending we were looking through the lens. Objective. Smiling.

We continued taking pictures from our different perspectives, the men
and I.