The Body Never Lies

In another life, La Condesa had been a theater critic. Her red hair is framed in the fairy lights of the milonga, and she fingers a glass of white wine. It is 3 a.m., and the dancing shadows of our friends move like swift amoebas along the walls as La mentirosa leaks from the old stereo.

'In the Theater of the Absurd the essential message is that communication between people is impossible,' she says. Her eyes watch a bead of water that sweats and runs lazily down the side of her glass. She no longer watches the dancers. It is a dangerous time of the morning for her. 'Words are inadequate. They are misunderstood. No one listens. Words lie and mislead.'

She drinks, drains the glass, and her hand comes away wet, but she doesn't notice.

The man she once loved is dancing with a blonde whose feet are quick and whose look has the sting of a whip.

'The body never lies,' she says and puts her hand to her cheek. 'Why didn't I believe him?'

Her hand drops to the table. Her cheek is glistening.