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Ididn’t plan on coming here, but I needed to get out of the house. There is a small part of me that would like to stay with my mom permanently. Well, actually it’s not so small. But I can’t take care of her full-time, so I still have to find help. If I sold the apartment in LA, I might be able to afford it. But that still leaves me with debts left behind by my father.
And would Sebastien want to move to New York? Would I even want to risk that? So many decisions to make. So many people to consider. So instead, I choose to take some time for myself. Selfishly.
Fortunately, this place holds a milonga each Monday. The restaurant is closed today, and I have nowhere else to hide from the depressing atmosphere of my parents’ house, or unresolved plans for my future and the people in it.
My father was brought up by a generation who believed a woman does what she’s told. I wasn’t that woman, and he never recovered from the failure of my marriage. That’s what I have been telling myself for years. Because I’m a coward and it was easier to believe that than to face the reality of my inability to stand up and speak for myself.
I made mistakes. I hurt people. I erred, believing I was protecting others. A false belief, but I didn’t know that at the time. That’s the problem with protecting others. When you choose to save someone, you act as if you’re invincible, as if you know better. And too often, the only protection they need is from you. From your well-intended choices.
And now it’s too late. I’m deep in the consequences of my actions, and if I could even find the courage to rectify the situation with those who are still alive, time has aggravated my betrayal. It’s deeper now. More permanent. More irreversible.
I need to live, carry the burden and push through. And I need to avoid the downfall because it would cause too much pain again. At least now the parties are oblivious and I’m the only one suffering.
After I moved to California, I was heartbroken. But worse, I had left my sense of self-worth on the East Coast. I left it in New York. I hated so much and so many, and most of all I hated myself, and so I sought attention. And attention I got. At a high price.
My therapist encouraged me to find a hobby, do something for myself. I immediately chose dancing, something I always enjoyed. Ballroom dancing helped me find something that was for me and about me only.
A form of expression that didn’t require words. A way of life that seeks joy and lets everyone in, regardless of their past or circumstances. The weekly milonga helped me out of the state of despair.
It takes me almost an hour to get to the dance school. I don’t know what to expect here, but I just want to get lost in the music, let myself flow and be led, relinquish control while creating something fluid and beautiful.
I don’t want to think about the reasons Massi would even suggest to Mila this is what I need. That he would know. That he remembered.
I enter the building and take the steps to the second floor. The entry hall is nearly overwhelming with its array of colors on the walls, the floors, the square ottomans and seats and even on the shelves.
It’s not a large space, but it sure is lively. I consider turning away because this looks like a hip-hop outlet.
“Hello.” A cheerful voice intersects my need to flee. A young woman appears behind the counter, startling me. “Are you here for our Monday milonga?”
“Hi. Yes.” I look around for some kind of anchor because the colors are dizzying.
Familiar music drifts toward us from behind the corner. I latch on to it like a life preserver.
“Ah, it seems they’ve started. Just follow the music. You can pay at the end.”
“Thank you.”
I’ve never enjoyed entering unfamiliar places. New people and situations cause me an irrational amount of anxiety. But as I approach the glass double doors, the music takes over and my body is drawn forward, even though my mind is still steering me to pivot and run.
Another woman opens the door and gestures me in, and I accept there will be no escape at this point. She startles me with a kiss on my cheek. This room is a stark contrast to the reception area.
It looks bare, with windows on one side and chairs around the perimeter of the rectangular floor. The white walls are decorated with black and white photographs of dancers.
There are a few women sitting around the room and several couples are dancing. A shortage of men at these events is a constant problem. Watching people dance isn’t as therapeutic as dancing itself, but as I glimpse a couple moving smoothly to the rhythm, I decide to stay for a few songs.
I strategize about the best seat, allowing me a good view but an opportunity to leave unnoticed if needed, when the door behind me opens again. I turn and freeze.
He wears a black vest over a white button-down shirt with its collar open. God, do I love a man in a vest. His hair is mussed, bouncing playfully. His rolled-up sleeves tone down the formality of his attire, but the casual touch only makes him hotter.
My heart is skipping beats as if it was its favorite pastime, completely ignoring my need to maintain life. Oxygen is in short supply suddenly, and as if my state of fluster wasn’t enough, the music stops. People move around, switching partners, finding a seat or getting ready for the next round.
With the first beats of the next song, Massi steps forward and nods, extending his hand. He wants to dance with me.
Shit. Shit. Shit. He stands between me and the door. Combined with several pairs of eyes I sense on me, I don’t think I can bolt.
I let out the air through my cheeks and accept his hand. The song is sensual and the mood is electric as I let Massi lead me. I try to focus on the beat, but my heart is pulsing in my ears, robbing me of reasonable awareness of my surroundings.
I tentatively place my hand on his shoulder because if I was to position it at his nape as expected I’d probably faint.
