19. Julieta
Chapter nineteen
Julieta
Tia Cecilia used to frequent milongas when I was younger, going out and staying until late. She would stumble back home laughing and humming to herself, her dress stretched out around her body like she’d been dancing all night. She always made it a point to wear something flowy or stretchy, something with give to allow for movement. I remember that now as I’m desperately searching my closet for something, anything decent, to wear. I find a simple black dress with thin straps, falling just past my knee, a slit up the side. A dress I bought on a whim for a date with Jeremy. I didn’t end up wearing it, breaking up shortly after instead. That was probably for the best anyway, but this dress will do.
My grandmother’s signature look was always a bright red lip. Didn’t matter how the years crept up on her, she kept that signature. And I always thought it was the most sophisticated look.
I feel a little more than silly as I try to recreate it now. Deep, lush, ruby red painted on in strokes. Any other dancer could fashion a glamourous updo with their long flowing hair. My short bob gets pinned back with small pins, brushed away from my face. I step into the shoes, buckling them with the same nerves I felt the first time. I’ve been wearing them for weeks now, but this somehow feels more official. Headed to a milonga in these shoes feels like I’m really doing the thing.
When I look at myself in the mirror, the surprise is jolting. There’s a steady acknowledgement that I look damn good in this dress. And Jeremy didn’t deserve to see me in it anyway.
But Logan…
Well, maybe he’ll like it. Not that I’m dressing up for him. But maybe he’ll appreciate that I look presentable, that I’m properly dressed for the part.
Though after Thursday night, I don’t know where anything stands.
One more look, one more turn in the mirror. Maybe I’m lying to myself. I should at least aim to be honest. There’s no point in going down this rabbit hole searching for the authenticity in my life if I’m not going to be honest with myself.
The knock on the door breaks me from it and I race to answer, smile on my face. When I step out to greet him, his jaw turns slack, slowly perusing my body in this dress. I feel practically naked.
“Wow.” There’s a devilish smile in place now. “You look great.”
“Oh. Thank you,” I reply, but the compliment makes me stand up straighter. It makes me feel like I’m getting it right. And this dress, I can admit, is for him.
He leans in to kiss me on the cheek in greeting and the move, familiar in every other aspect of my life, surprises me.
“You look great, too,” I add in. And he does. With loose pants again, and a button-down shirt. It looks casual, yet somehow professional. Like he knows what he’s doing just fine. He smells faintly like cologne, something generic enough that I’ve probably smelled many times over in the courthouse, but on his skin it smells bright and novel and deliciously sexy.
“Let’s go dance.” He smiles as he offers me his hand, and we walk to the elevators and out to his parked car.
“Okay, here’s a quick rundown of a milonga,” he begins as we drive down Seventh Street.
“I know what a milonga is.”
“Do you know the etiquette?”
I eye him. “Give me a refresher.”
“So, it’s a social night for the tango community. That’s it, first and foremost. Nobody is judging you, there isn’t a prize to be won. This is just a good time. The fun thing about milongas is the casual aspect of it. You can people watch; you can drink your wine in the back of the room if you want. That being said, I’d like you to dance with different partners tonight, if that’s alright. Get a feel for different styles.”
He keeps his eyes on the road as he talks, but I can’t help but look over at him: his hand loose over the steering wheel, his hair that same mess as always. He takes up space—in this car, in the studio. Wonderfully. And he does so without a second thought.
“The practica will help get you acclimated to the milonga style. There’s a closer embrace and the steps are quicker and shorter. It’s meant to be improvisational, fun.”
“Fun,” I repeat, with a tight smile, but the nerves are starting to emerge.
“The cabeceo,” he keeps going. “If a man is making eye contact and you’d like to dance with him, you need to hold eye contact and give a nod. If you’re not interested, you look away.”
I just stare.
“You should wait until he approaches you, and then he’ll lead you to the dance floor.”
I can’t help but snort in laughter. “Oh God.”
“He can also verbally ask you, but it’s not as common. But even in those situations, do not be afraid to say no. A no is very respected in a milonga, at least it should be. Also, no talking during the tanda.”
The tanda I know. It’s two to three songs in the same tempo that are played for dancing.
“One tanda is customary, and it’s enough,” he continues. “You say thank you once the tanda is done, and that is a means to an end. Two tandas … well, that means he’s probably interested in more than just a dance.” He winks, mouth curved into a smirk.
“What year is it again?”
“Don’t walk through the dance floor when getting on or off, try to walk around. And just have fun with it.” He turns into the parking space effortlessly.
“Just have fun with it after you listed forty-seven rules for me to follow?”
He puts the car in park, then turns to look at me. “This should be a good time, something enjoyable, so let yourself have it.”
We open our doors, stumbling out into the warm night, and I can’t help but laugh in response again.
“What?”
“I don’t know how I ended up in this predicament with you mansplaining a milonga to me, but here we are.”
“Unless you’re in the tango community, it’s not the most common knowledge. Even to Argentinians.”
“I guess so,” I say. But maybe I would have hoped to know. I should have known all of this.
“You alright?”
“Just nervous, I guess.” Just dragging up memories. Just remembering why I’m here.
“Hey.” He stops walking. “You know you can say no to me, right?”
“What?”
“You can say no.”
“I know that,” I respond, but the answer falls flat. Do I know that? Of course, I do, why is he saying this?
“I just want to make sure you know. Fun, remember? If it starts to feel like a chore, or like pressure, then you can step away. I won’t be upset about it.”
But what happens when I can’t let myself step away? I think. “Okay,” I nod.
“Okay,” he replies with a deep breath, and he opens the door to the ballroom. Logan takes my hand, my very own lifeline, and we walk in. “Vamos a bailar.”