Tango(ying ) your Life Away

Every other night she goes to the Tango place. She dresses fancy, puts on her make-up, uses her shinny jewelry, wears her crystal shoes. She sits down like a real lady, putting on her most secure posture, trying to look serious but desirable. She expects someone will invite her to dance. Her eyes blink to the men around, her hands move nervously, but she keeps her back very straight. After all, she wants to call the attention of younger men. This is an Asian lady, the kind of woman that attracts attention for her apparent serenity. She is older than what she is trying to appear. But her beauty has remained through the decades. I see a life of loneliness and of heart-breaks. I see someone who tries to fight her spare time and sadness by putting on the mask she is wearing tonight. A mask that makes her shine, but that does not hide the hurt inside. A mask that does not change her nature, rather makes it come out. She sits with her carefully chosen alfit. After some time the feeling of disappointment for not being invited leads her to talk to me. She wants to be heard, but not to hear. She leans to my ear and tells me how silly she finds is to just wait for an invitation that may not come. I agree, I say. She pities me, as she believes I am also waiting. I explain her that I am not there to dance. Only to observe. She turns her head away. Her eyes seek the eyes of a man in the saloon. Some minutes after she gets invited. I focus my eyes on her dancing. She closes her eyes while she dances. And while she knows she has to be led by the man, her eccentricity makes her want to take some initiative, to be original. She needs to express what she is feeling inside. She feels every note of the music in her blood. She tries to feel and follow the man's moves. But she can not attach completely. The man notices that to her. She explains. They dance again. She finally smiles and is happy for the minutes that the dance lasts. Slowly she walks like a cat towards her seat. She glows of pleasure for having the opportunity to dance. She sits. Soon she feels bored for not being as solicited as she would like to be. She talks to me again. I smile and nod my head. I do not say much. After all, she does not want to hear, only wants to be heard. Still she tries to keep a conversation. She needs the attention. But not too much attention or men will not come to her to invite for a dance. Indeed, a lonely person who tries to fight the same feeling by entering a conversation with a stranger. I listen to her and can not but feel impressed. I imagine the many stories she could tell me about her long and turbulent life. She mentions another country where Tango is more appreciated; where the dance floors are always full and not empty like in this place. She does not understand these people who go to a Tango place for any other reason than to dance. She does not say much about her. Nevertheless, her life is summarised in the smile she keeps showing out of politeness and of the need to seem happy. A big, white smile that somehow is not happy. She intrigues me. I leave the place thinking about how she will arrive home and take as much time as she can to take off her clothes, her make-up and the many jewels she is wearing. After all, she has much time in her hands and needs to make it pass somehow. This is how she will live until her days end. And she will be happy her own way. I hope I will meet her again. I want a better photo of her.
While still submerse in my thoughts about this Lady I turn my head. My focus falls on someone else in the room.
Every other night she goes to the Tango place. I see her on the other side of the room; someone whom I have learned to know quite well recently. I look at her. She dresses comfortably, because she prioritises her comfort, well-being and unique identity over the need that most women have of calling attention. Simplicity and beauty mixed with a very feminine touch. This is her. She enters the Tango place with a quiet smile, greets the people she knows, seats discretely and puts on her magic shoes. She tries to relax and then she is ready to receive invitations to dance. She seems patient and calm, but the waters that flow underneath are agitated and in need of action. She is thinking of someone who is absent, while trying to focus on the reason why she is there. She gets invited to dance. Somehow she does not look like the same person that was sitting at my side just a minute ago. She is dancing, while I seat and observe. I observe the transformation of this young woman. It takes her no less than a few seconds to go from shy and a bit insecure to wonderful, confident and secure. When her Tango shoes hit the floor she becomes somebody else. Yet she does not change, she is the same person. While the dance lasts she knows she rules the floor and her feelings. She is doing what she most likes and knows she is good at it. She fears nothing. Everyone and everything around her disappear. The world is reduced to the dance floor and to performing the best Tango she can. Not to impress others, but to confirm to herself what she already knows. She is a great dancer and a great young lady. She knows it and feels proud. While she dances, sad thoughts go away, men no longer intimidate her, her shape or look are not important. She is dancing and breaks free. For those brief moments nothing else matters. Nevertheless, I know that as soon as she stops dancing, the thoughts that were in her mind before will come back. She will feel divided between what (who) is there in her front and what (who) is not. She has so much to give. I think to myself: the woman that was on the dance floor should be there all the time. The woman on the dance floor and the woman now sitting again next to me are one and the same. One day the thin line between them will merge. And then she will be as strong and confident as ever. I smile. I find this vision wonderful.
- BeyondTeresaE, 2007