Not today, she thought. She was not in a hurry to get back home, to see Mark, or to talk about her terrible day at work. She turned to the first corner she found. The street was empty. Great. She banged her hand on a wall and quickened her pace. She wanted to scream, but that would draw other people’s attention. Left, right, left, right, right, left. The rain transformed from a drizzle to a torrential downpour, each drop splattering against the pavement, and the few people outside ran to get cover. As she turned around another corner, a taxi hit a road bump next to her, splashing her with dirty rainwater. Drenched, she looked down, her soaked clothes clinging to her. She locked eyes with the taxi driver, her gaze heavy with unspoken reproach, but he drove away, oblivious. “Nobody cares anymore,” she muttered, and closed her umbrella, surrendering to the rain.

With each step, tears silently streamed down her face. She lifted her hand to remove them but stopped midway. Nobody would notice them either way. “Why? Why can’t you just be happy? What’s wrong with you?” she whispered. Something caught her eye. She looked to her right, noticing the mirror of a small local gym. And there she was. Streaked mascara trails ran from her eyes, painting a poignant picture on her cheeks, the rain and tears indistinguishable. Her shoes were now sullied and soaked through. She stood motionless, looking at her reflection.

The sound of the rain intensified. Water from a nearby building’s guttering fell on a garbage bin, creating a chaotic symphony of beats. Sarah closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself. Her chest rose and fell. And then, she heard it.

A solitary piano note sliced through the air, soon joined by the sorrowful cry of a violin. What crazy musician is still on the street? The music seemed to pause briefly. Sarah took a few steps in the direction from which the sounds emanated. Another note. With every step, the music became clearer and louder, and oddly, older. The piano ceased, but the violin continued, slow and melodic. Sarah’s eyes filled with tears once more. A void formed inside her chest, a longing. The music grew stronger, reached a crescendo, and then stopped.

A lone red light flickered at a building’s entrance, like a beacon in her stormy night. Red light? She thought. That can’t be right. She approached and reached the door. It was slightly open. Carefully, she pushed it a tiny bit and looked inside with one eye only. The music was definitely coming from there. She could hear people talking. A few seconds later, someone applauded. She positioned her ear at the slight opening of the door to listen better. And then she felt a hand on her shoulder. Sarah jumped.

“Excuse me, young lady, can I pass? Oh, wait. You are all wet. What are you doing out here? Come, with me, with me now.”

A petite, elderly lady, her age etched gracefully in the lines of her face, seized Sarah’s elbow with surprising strength, ushering her into the warmth.

“But…” Sarah started.

“I’ll never understand your generation. Please, leave the shoes at the door. There is no place for wet shoes on the dance floor. Come on, come on, we have warm tea inside, and you are late.”

Late? For what? With hesitant curiosity, Sarah edged closer, peering through the next door where a different world seemed to unfold. OK, that’s definitely a dance floor. She took her shoes off.

“Come, let’s get you out of these clothes.” The old lady took her to the changing room. “Here, try this skirt. I don’t have a good top for this. Well, young lady, you’ll stay with your t-shirt, if you don’t mind looking a bit sloppy.”

“I don’t even remember the last time someone called me a young lady,” Sarah responded with a smile.

“Well, you haven’t given me your name yet, have you, young lady? In my days, we used to give our names straight away.”

“I am sorry. It’s Sarah. And you are?”

“My friends call me Maria. This way, Sarah.”

Maria took Sarah to the main dance hall. Dim, ambient lighting bathed the studio, a stark contrast to the bright, lively hues of her childhood dance memories. Chairs and a few tables surrounded the dance floor. Four guys were laughing in a corner, all wearing baggy pants. A hip hop class? Can’t be. Those pants are too elegant. A few women were chatting on one side of the floor, and a few more were seated on the other side putting on their dance shoes. The shoes were also different from what Sarah remembered. Instead of the traditional pink color of the heels used in Latin dances, dance shoes of every hue dotted the room. Turquoise ones sparkling like the ocean, another pair adorned with delicate butterflies, and a glossy black pair gleaming under the soft light. 

“You don’t have high heels, do you?” asked Maria. “No worries, you can dance without them.”

“Dance? I can’t… I’ve never really learned.”

“Isn’t that what a dance class is for?”

A door on the other side of the studio opened. Sarah’s mouth dropped open.

About the author

I am a social tango dancer and the author of the book ‘Tangofulness: Exploring Connection, Awareness, and Meaning in Tango,’ which has been translated into 12 languages. I began dancing tango in 2009, and it has enriched my life with moments of meaning, friendships, love, family, happiness, travels, and over 3000 prolonged hugs. I am here to share this joy with you through my books and my tango newsletter thecurioustanguero.com. I invite you to join Sarah in her wonderful journey and discover what it holds for you. Who knows, maybe after reading this book, we’ll have the chance to share a hug somewhere. I would love that. Feel free to connect with me on Facebook.