La Porteña was having another headache, a massive black weight that darkened and pressed the light that always, always shines out of her. Her partner, Descartes, led her to the floor of the little salon.
Its floor-to-ceiling windows invited a reflection of green and blue from the rolling lawn outside and, beyond, the endless horizon of the water. He folded her up in his gentle arms, she lifted herself on the toes of her dance sneakers, closed her eyes and let herself be swept off into Ojos Negros. As he navigated the small space and spun to face us, Descartes lifted a brow. "Tango therapy," he said with a smile and executed a perfect giro in the splashing sunshine.
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