La Luna is demanding. 'The colgadas are for the daring.' But on this day the balance between partners falters. La Luna, a world-class dancer, is patient, kind, encouraging - unrelenting.
El Flaco arrives to the lesson as it is ending, and he is impatient. He expects the floor to clear for the milonga that will be this night. He cannot control his eyes, and they roll to the ceiling.
I do not know my partner's name, and he does not ask mine, but as Adiós Chantecler sighs into a pause, we fall back into the colgada and spin, spin, spin, my leg free, the trust total.
'All these moves are no good on the dance floor,' El Flaco mutters. 'They can never be done.' He is like this. Practical. Everything to a purpose. 'All this work. All this practice - for nothing.'
And I laugh to myself as I spin, and we both fall back into the safety of each other's weight.
The tango is not steps; it is trust.
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