Tango Noire at Seattle Center, May 25th, 4:26 p.m.

Dancing couple

Seattle Center, 5/25/13, Tango Noire, Armory

The violins start,
and you pull me
onto the dance floor
before the bass and cellos join.

Correct placement of hands,
and feet, arms out,
back straight, shoulders down …
Which foot do I start on?

Your hand leaves my back
to tilt my chin up.
Smiling, you whisper,
“Look into my eyes.”

The dance starts and
your hand returns to my back:
Nudging me into the steps,
slow and steady.

“Watch me,” you whisper again
and I nod, counting beats.
“Feel me,” you urge, your hand
gently pressing my shoulder blade.

“Trust me,” you say with a grin
and I can’t respond
any other way than
“Yes, always.”

My feet move reluctantly,
hips twisting a beat behind
or more. “It’s like,” I mutter,
“I don’t know my own body.”

He squeezes my right hand.
I know your body.”
And he has that look.
Yes, that look.

The hand at my back slides
further down until it rests
at the top of my right hip.
Our teacher would be appalled.

“Guide me,” I ask.
“Lead me.”
“Support me.”
The rest goes unsaid.

“Yes,” he growls
right in my ear.
Breath tickling my skin,
“Always. Now close your eyes.”

With a slight shiver,
I close my eyes
and let go of feeling foolish,
Letting him sweep me away.

Our feet glide,
mirroring each other
Footfalls, short and intense,
bursts amid a languid dance.

The horns and strings swell
while the piano holds staccato
and the accordion binds
the menagerie of sounds together.

My skirt brushes over
his thighs as we twirl.
When he steps between my feet,
his chest grazes mine for one aching moment.

The song becomes louder and faster,
and our steps evolve, are more dramatic.
“Ready?” he whispers,
and I squeeze his hand.

The music builds towards a crescendo
while our legs sweep out in wide arcs,
I kick, then slide down towards the floor
until he pulls me up into his arms.

Spinning together, holding on
I throw my head back and laugh,
Right at the final, triumphant note.
A flourish of an ending.

As he walks me off the dance floor,
arm around my back,
hand on my hip again, he chastises,
“There’s no laughing in the tango.”

I look at him, eyes dancing, face flushed.
“Oh,” I reply with a frown.
“Well, tell me this …
is there laughing in bed?”

He pulls me close, hips bumping.
His lips at my ear
with that damned sexy growl,
“Yes … always.”

— MK

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