After tasting the joys of tango, it’s hard to go back to whatever it was you did for fun before. Other people’s lives and pleasures seem paltry. Tango is the love that surpasses everything you used that word for before. It understands you. It wants your depths. It hears your whispers.
But tango is an abusive lover and a cheat. One minute holding you tenderly and the next telling you you’re not good enough. The gaze you need is looking in another direction, smiling at another, fingers intertwined giddily taking to the floor. Never looking back. You don’t exist. The last tanda you were on top of the world. The next tanda doesn’t happen. You can bide your time, but you can only keep your spirits up for so long.
You regard your replacement, at first unimpressed. Your idle longing nips at hems, weighs their points of contact, mimics every tiny contraction. Your eyes glued to their lips you see what they feel.
What can you do?
Do you love and hate tango at the same time? After initial joy and pleasure you are waiting, doubting yourself, yearning unfulfilled?
