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“Why are you so stiff?” he asks, perplexed.
“I’m not trying to be stiff,” I answer, defensively.
“Move your limbs.”
“Iammoving my limbs.”
“Just … okay, let’s try this.” He demonstrates a couple of exercises and warmups to get my arms and legs moving more freely.
I might be too nervous, doing these dances with him now privately. Sometimes I look at him dancing—the flawless delivery, the fluidity—and wonder how I could even match up.
“Bet you’re wishing you didn’t offer to do this,” I mumble.
“Not even a little bit,” he says firmly.
I start to backtrack, but he keeps going.
“We aren’t joining the tango Olympics here. It’s a fun competition. For amateurs.”
“Right,” I answer almost embarrassingly.
“And I agreed to be your partner because I wanted to. I don’t do things I don’t want to do. Remember that.”
It’s surprising to hear it. What a wonderful feeling that must be.I don’t do things I don’t want to do.
Logan sighs loudly, then takes a minute to, I assume, think.
“Okay, we’re going to try something else.” I see him walk over and grab what looks like an extra t-shirt from his bag. “Can I put this over your eyes?”
“You’re going to blindfold me?” I ask, skeptically, as I look at the shirt in his hands.
“Can I?”
“Well, you’re the professional, I guess.”
But he doesn’t rush to do it, instead just eyes me for a beat. I shouldn’t do things I don’t want to do, either, but in this instance, with him next to me holding this piece of fabric almost as a sort of peace offering, I find that I want it.
I swallow, then tell him, “Go ahead.”
As he gently slips the fabric over my eyes, his fingertips brush against my hair, and my scalp erupts in goosebumps. He ties a knot in the back tight enough to be secure.
“I don’t want you to look down at your shoes, or at me, or the mirror. I want you to feel the music. Trust your feet, and trust your body. I’m going to wrap my arm around you now, and I’ll help you do the same.” He takes my arms and positions them properly, his skin something warm that I get to explore through feel, and then we begin.
I start rough: stepping on his foot, tripping over nothing, missing a step.
“Dammit. Sorry,” I say.
“Take your time. I’m right here.”
But as it goes on, I start to find my confidence. I start to figure it out.
Maybe it’s the not looking, the feeling, the trusting. The rhythm I have to follow with my own body and then his. I walk, I turn, I sidestep and move backwards in an ocho. He leads me as he always has: gently, slowly, confidently. And as we’re temple to temple, intimate in our embrace, his deep voice is a reassuring sound in my ear.
“Very good.”
“Perfect.”
“Just like that.”
