If his gaze were fingers, I would feel them dancing on my body every time he said I was born to Tango. But I’d rather his gaze were rain. Cool, gentle rain on my forehead, teardrops into the lake of my eyes, sweet melon juice on my parched lips, a tongue-lick of breeze above my chest—and only then becoming fingers, spread behind my shoulder for the Abrazo and the first steps of Salida.
A whole month now, learning the forward Ocho. He’d clasp his fingers around mine and would slide his leg forward as I slid mine back. One-and-a, two-and-a, he’d count and twirl me, his other hand burning on my back, while the tango pulsed its beat from the speakers, hot and bright as a heart. As two hearts.
Today I was late, had to change, to freshen up. The music was on, a new song, blaring. Then I saw him dancing with Julia. His hands containing her body, his breath breezing over her as they did the Lean, the salty tongue of his gaze on her chest as she twirled into the silk belt of his arms. Did he call her Tanguera too?
I walked in. He didn’t even ask if I’d dance today, his gaze raining on Julia’s face.
I changed back into my uniform and walked a straight Caminata to the school counsellor. Told her Mr Giordano watched us—always watched us, through the glass of the exit door—every time we changed for dance class.
First published in Flash Frontier in English и на Български.
Photo by Preillumination SeTh on Unsplash
Rostislava Pankova-Karadjova 