Hold Me Tight and Tango Me Home Read Free Page B

me.”
    “I’m going to a wedding in Montevideo in December,” I volunteered, “and I’m meeting friends in Buenos Aires a week beforehand. I figured it would be more fun if I knew some tango.” I didn’t tell them the whole truth: that time passed for me in a haze. Constantly lost, I made wrong turns and mistakenly drove over toll bridges with no cash on me. I sat stony faced, pulled to the side while the cops shook their heads and wrote out tickets. I couldn’t eat — I rarely felt hungry, and I didn’t have the mental capacity to organize myself in a grocery store. I slept on the couch, avoiding our bed, and wore the same jeans and T-shirt almost every day. It was a struggle to pull myself together to work at my computer — and I really needed to work. Between writing out a big check to my divorce lawyer and my monthly expenses having doubled overnight, I had to write and sell articles. But I just couldn’t think straight. My world was filled only with bruising memories, raw, bottomless aches, and disbelief that my life had become so uncertain. Every once in a while I called my husband and screamed at him like a person with Tourette’s. If I happened to be in public when the impulse hit, other people backed away from me, very slowly.
    I was pretty certain that Claire and Allen hadn’t told me their full reasons either.
    We discussed leading versus following as we mixed lime, fresh mint, and bean sprouts in with our noodles.
    “You have more to worry about as a leader,” Claire said. “I don’t envy them.”
    “Yeah, but we have to adapt to all the different styles of leaders,” I said. “When I was learning salsa, any guy from backwater Venezuela was one hundred percent convinced he was dancing salsa correctly, while the next guy from Puerto Rico had entirely different steps.”
    “I think the leader gets to interpret more,” Allen said. “But he has to be bolder — pay attention to lots of things at once so he doesn’t slam his partner into other people. And he has to ask women to dance.”
    “I run my own interior design business where I make all the decisions, shoulder all the responsibility,” Claire said. “I love the thought of not having to be in charge on the dance floor. Following is a relief.”
    With this, we ventured into territory usually not broached early on among dance pupils — our day jobs.
    “I used to teach literature and writing to college students, but I’ve had enough writing assignments to quit for a while. So I’m home alone at my computer during the day,” I said. “I like the social engagement at night.”
    Allen eventually told us that he worked at a financial institution as a computer technician.
    “So do you get irritated at people who call you in a panic, only to find out when you arrive that they forgot to turn on their computers?” I asked him.
    “Well, it is nice to finally get a little respect from the brokers,” he answered.
    We finished the meal and made our way back to the studio,weaving between the pedestrians and vendors’ carts that filled the streets, passing breath mints between us.
    Anytime there was a break — in conversation, dance lessons, something to focus on — the dread returned: the feeling like someone had died. I missed my husband. Not the man I was divorcing, but the man I married. The one who met me at the subway station at night and walked me home. Who carried my bike up the stairs for me. Right after our wedding, we had argued over what color linoleum tiles we should put on the kitchen floor. I wanted bright blue, he want a more subdued color. We finally agreed on light green. He laid the tiles and I helped by scraping up the excess glue. He stood and surveyed his work while I was still scrubbing on my hands and knees; either he was admiring his handiwork or my butt in the air, or both. He grabbed me around the waist and we made love on the kitchen floor.
    But something changed. His interest in the house ended. He was too