He felt the energy running though his feet and legs like a raw tiger current. He wanted a woman, a fine fluid one, a woman with hips and legs that could follow his. This woman was unimportant to him except this: that she would carry the energy of his movements into and away from herself. She would be the other polarity of a charge found in the complexity of the guitar’s codas.
She sat at table, a tequila and lime before her, careful to drink only the smallest sip. She wanted a man with the confidence to send a charge though her nerves and veins, the heartbeat of the tango. Her hair was moonless desert night black, pulled tight away from her face in a circular bun at the back of her neck. Her dress too was black, and also tight, working like an artist bold single stroke to trace the lithe and firm contour of low back and long legs. She looked on the dance floor like it might be a scroll on which to write legends. Her face was thin, hungry with the unsatisfied yearning of youth. His face was scared, roughened by the sun, with a large square jaw, and wide eyes women wanted to explore at casual encounters.
He knew, and when she heard the first music, and saw him extend his hand at her table, his pose relaxed but ready, she knew as well they would dance through the night. She took his hand. He bowed, and they went onto the floor, his hand just under her shoulder blade, hers along the outer edge of his other arm, standing close, they were, from the first step, one body, one mind, one heart, one expression of feeling. They were the dancers.
Her caretaker came just then, and removed the ancient picture from her hands. ‘It’s time for your bath,’ she told Isabella. She rolled the bowed over old woman down the hall, a long rail at each side for those few who could walk. “But, Reinaldo is waiting for me,” Isabella protested. “Oh dear, that poor man. We’ll just have to leave back at the dance floor Isabella. If he’s the kind of lover you say he is, he’ll be waiting for your return.”