Tango

Maria Theresa Falabella replaced Mrs. Crosdale in our office as the middle school secretary.  It did not take long to realize Maria Theresa was different.  Never to like a lot of change, I smiled at her with faint distrust instantly missing Deborah Crosdale’s chocolates served with her Mrs. Doubtfire’s British accent.  

When the new woman at the desk complimented my favorite heels, I have to admit I immediately and shallowly became at least a temporary ally. It wasn’t until I heard Maria in hushed tones at the lunch table talk about tango and lovers from Switzerland that I realized she was to become someone I MUST know.  Perhaps it was the reminiscing of my own now despised puritanical ideals, which produced my only regret of my time here in Europe, which was not capitalizing on the chance of having my own Swiss lover during that one weekend in St. Tropez.  Ah, Stephan the finance guy from Zurich.  

But as much as I think I could be different, and as much as I sometimes long to be different, I am pretty serious about love and its making.  Of course, I am known to smile blissfully as an attractive man leans in to kiss me, but one-night stands disguised as lovers is not something I am all that interested in.  

But Maria capitalizes on all opportunities and lives in the moment.  A self proclaimed Mary Poppins of sorts. Her pedagogical knowledge of education makes even the most devout teacher blush a little when she comes to the table.  But dancing is what she loves, more specifically tango, and her book “Caminito” shows dance as it is, the echoing of the soul.

A simple gymnasium, sheets for background, Maria sits in front of me as two guitars play music from Latin America.  Black charcoal sketches, the chords plucked as the tempo changes making me want to see the dancers re-enter.  I secretly long for J’s perfect hands, though my mind stubbornly and eventually wanders for just a moment to Amber Perkin’s School of Dance.

“I wish we could just drive all night.”  

I can still feel what it is like to be in his arms, I can picture my outfit, black linen pants, red shirt, black strappy high-heeled sandals, that I still can’t seem to throw away.  I am not sure I have ever felt so beautiful, my body next to his, wooing him to love me.  I wooed him into loving me, an action unforgivable and unfair for everyone involved.  And though there is no need to long for him now at a tango performance, I have become used to his sudden appearances that enter my memory without beckoning or warning.  So I nod and say, “Hey.” And he disappears for a while into that place that I have tried to tuck him. 

J’s hands. Wishing I could touch J, put my hand to his head and touch his hair.  The vision of him at my sister’s wedding, teaching Spencer “the sprinkler”.  I wanted him there, him coming because I needed him to be there.  My black floor length dress, his tux bought for the occasion.  His smile, his influence, his ability to make me feel light-hearted about love again.

Caminito, indeed.