When the rains come, we are soaked, but the urgent sounds of El choclo float off the porch through the drops, and we laugh at ourselves. We have no shoes, and the sand lets us pivot effortlessly. Our bodies become slick against each other, and the thunder makes the very air shake.
The threads of lightning strike again and again a place on the tiny island just beyond the reef. The daggers of light tear open the black of the night. It is as though two tectonic plates of the night sky move apart in a blink to show the light of day that is just behind the darkness. Instantly, as though showing us something we shouldn't see, the plates move back together, and it is night once more.
As the song fades away, we hear a crackling coming from the water. Lightning makes daylight for an instant. It is not crackling; it is the applause of six surfers who have been watching us dance.
'They are crazy,' says La Porteña. 'They are floating between two metal jetties.'
I look at her, and we both laugh. We are ourselves standing exposed to the weather, the only upright beings on the long white shore. We are like lightning rods, and the electricity in the air makes my hair light even though it is soaked.
I call to El Suave, who is at the phonograph, and he knows instinctively what we need.
And as the quick step of the milonga Baldosa floja rolls down through the tempest to us, we clasp each other close and feel the heat of each other's body through our wet clothes.
Lightning? It only expresses what we all feel.
The threads of lightning strike again and again a place on the tiny island just beyond the reef. The daggers of light tear open the black of the night. It is as though two tectonic plates of the night sky move apart in a blink to show the light of day that is just behind the darkness. Instantly, as though showing us something we shouldn't see, the plates move back together, and it is night once more.
As the song fades away, we hear a crackling coming from the water. Lightning makes daylight for an instant. It is not crackling; it is the applause of six surfers who have been watching us dance.
'They are crazy,' says La Porteña. 'They are floating between two metal jetties.'
I look at her, and we both laugh. We are ourselves standing exposed to the weather, the only upright beings on the long white shore. We are like lightning rods, and the electricity in the air makes my hair light even though it is soaked.
I call to El Suave, who is at the phonograph, and he knows instinctively what we need.
And as the quick step of the milonga Baldosa floja rolls down through the tempest to us, we clasp each other close and feel the heat of each other's body through our wet clothes.
Lightning? It only expresses what we all feel.
mi vida está en la milonga
my life is in the milonga
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