It’s nearly 1:00 a.m. and I’m just back from tango class. It started at 8p.m. but this is tango and sometimes things linger, the music gets louder, the wine comes out, the craziness gets started and the men start seeing who can hone the better moves with the better woman. It came down to an English man trying to play quarters, me flicking a beer bottle cap across the length of the dance floor and all of us back in our dance shoes and pushing the tango to it’s very limits. This of course is when the tango gets really good. Ambitions are down. Everyone is laughing, throwing dares, all worked up, sweating, panting and dancing like our lives depend on this very moment, which it actually may.
It was good. My knees are good. HE is good. My moves are getting better again. I am starting to feel again like a dancer not just a woman who sometimes dances. It may not be true, but it feels true and that’s all that matters.
I danced the last dance with the roguish bastard (he stepped on my toes, left scuff marks everywhere. He did it on purpose. I punched him in the arm. We are like two school children. He pulls my ponytails, I throw sand on his shirt.) When I dance with him I forget how old I am. I forget everything. EVERYTHING, accept that moment, with him, embraced, dancing.