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“You know, the thing about tango is that it should involve relinquishing your ego,” Logan says out loud to the class. “In order to be a good partner, there should be a compromise. Teamwork is meeting where your partner is at. It’s choosing to not humiliate or upstage the other.” He turns to my partner. “Ethan, this is her first class, so you need to meet her where she’s at.”
Now this is really awkward.
“Julie, try to keep your spine straight,” he says to me in a softer tone, placing his hand lightly on my back. It feels warm, like there’s an underlying current of electricity coming from his palm. “Lift your elbows up and try to keep a box frame here to give yourself room.” I nod in response, but then he turns to Ethan and says, “Watch the basic step as a leader again.”
Logan takes my hand, stepping in to hold me in a practice embrace. “It should look like this.” He then leads me with precision, one basic step together. It’s only a couple of seconds, a brief eight count, but it pales in comparison to what I just danced.
Isthiswhat dancing should feel like?
Well, no wonder he’s the professional.
Logan releases my arms, and it leaves me feeling inexplicably dazed. Ethan and I come back together, working on our moves, maybe awkwardly laughing through it. I’m almost desperate to take the reins and lead him myself.
I listen intently, and I continue to practice the moves little by little. Tara and Logan walk around the studio looking at form, stepping in to help. She keeps a friendly, approachable smile; he’s humming a song. Tara gives me a small smile of encouragement as she approaches. And when Logan comes over again, his brow furrows slightly, his mouth set in a firm line.
Am I doing something wrong? I stop for a moment.
“No, keep going,” he says.
So I do, and he continues to look at me with that intensity. I will myself to not think about him, or Ethan's less than desirable leading, and focus on my feet instead. One foot in front of the other, cross over, feet together, and back. He wordlessly walks back to the front and calls out the end of class.
When Ethan and I finally part, he stumbles and steps right on my shoe.
“Ah, shit,” I wince, leaning down to grab my foot.
“Oh no, I’m sorry. You’re alright, though?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for a response.
“Mmhmm,” I mumble, nodding with a tight smile.
“So, for the end of class, we like to do a review,” Logan says at the head of the class. “Tara and I will dance the moves you’ve learned today. We’ll dance slowly so you can see them and then we can have everybody partner up again and try if you’d like.”
Tara sets up the speakers to play a song in tempo. The music starts on cue, and I am not prepared for my reaction. There’s an overwhelming sense of pride in the unmistakable sounds of piano and bass and violin. The rich, bold, incredibly romantic music loved so deeply, so fiercely by my grandmother is nowhere. The music I would hear in my dreams as a child is now in this small dance studio, the sound booming from the speakers. Ifeelit within me, setting me alight.
I catch my reflection in the mirror in the front of the room; I look terrified.
Logan and Tara stand facing each other then bring their hands together. Her arm wraps around him, and Logan’s arm wraps around Tara, his hand set in the middle of her back. They do the basic step and cross, and I watch, soaking it all in.
I love to watch tango. It’s wildly romantic, sensual, passionate—all the things that I’m not. It’s a little like watching something you shouldn’t: intimate moments between two lovers. And on top of that, Tara and Logan make a beautiful couple. Their moves are fluid and graceful. Her turns are elegant, his steps are in perfect rhythm. I could watch this all day, this mesmerizing dance I’ve somehow been tied to all my life.
Once they finish, we applaud them, and they break away to let us practice. Ethan comes back to me, and we move in our practice embrace, the same steps over and over again.
Soon enough, class is over. And I breathe a sigh of relief that I made it through my very first one.
“That’s all for today,” Logan calls out. “But we’ve got more weeks ahead of us, and it’s going to be a great time. See you all next week.”
The students recite their goodbyes as they gather their belongings and head out the door. I practically lunge for my bag, reaching for my phone that I’m not used to being without for longer than mere minutes. And there I notice three missed calls from Barbara, six new messages from work, and two messages from Agostina and my mom. I quickly look at them, but none of them seem important. Nothing from work that couldn’t have waited.
The wind has been taken out of my sails with a force. I couldn’t even get an hour to myself. Not one hour to myself without the world needing me for something. Maybe I could just cut my losses now.
These classes are frivolous. More reason to admit it.
I glance up and find Logan and Tara looking at me, standing side by side, both of them smiling as they say, “See you next week.”
“Oh. Yes. Next week.” I nod, picking up my bag.
No, probably not.
Chapter six
