We dance until it was way past the time. Midnight. We dance.
There's the girl with the curly hair. She's pretty. I don't know in what way. Her face is symmetrical. Her eyebrows dark and thin. Her nose is almost regal. She's a beginner, so "experts" like us get her full attention.
There's the best dancer in town, in the state. She's my best friend in tango. She is much sought after. But she doesn't tire out easily. Her heart is too full of energy. She could be sick and you'd find her dancing. She loves the music too much.
Then the music. Responsible person is the DJ, one of our friends. To be a DJ you really have to love the music, love it deeply, know it like a wife, love it like a lover. And you have to know how the music affects the crowd so you can use the crowd to determine the music. He has been listening to this music longer than I have. If the music were a person, he would marry her.
I am sitting on a bar stool, alone. I don't want to chitchat with anyone now. I just want to watch. I was sitting here earlier and when I looked at the row of people sitting, someone I knew winked at me. Not realy "wink"; in Argentina it is called the "cabaceo", when you gesture with a slight bend of the head to suggest a dance. I saw it and I was a little reluctant because what I really wanted to do was sit and watch. Now I am sitting again, I am not looking at anyone in that row.
The time has sprung forward an hour, and I have to catch up!
