The voice of Elba Berón stabbed out of the stereo from a time long ago in Buenos Aires, and the man took his partner into a close embrace and forced her down into a low media luna.
The lights were dim, and their glow was rosy, spilling onto the old oak of the milonga floor. The dancers played with the melody of Y a mi qué? as they navigated the space, oblivious to others. Their eyes were hungry on each other. They melted into one as the song's notes bled to the floor.
He no longer knew I existed.
Anguish.
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