The torrent of rain beating on the window brought to mind the day she buried her husband. What a dismal day that! She planted him in the cheapest coffin she could find and without a funeral. Only she and Reverend Smathers attended the brief, wet sendoff. Herman's dead and buried, thank God! After all those rotten years, she was finally rid of the old fool.
Myrtle pushed the knitting back into the bag, roamed into the kitchen for a drink and raised the shade. Looking out at the gloom, the black clouds seemed to be suspended over her, and depressed, she lowered the shade and returned to the living room. Bored. Bored. Sitting in her chair, she examined her fingers stiff in the early stages of arthritis. What shit, this getting old! What to do? Grow old and turn into some damn mummy? Like hell!
Normally, she refused to turn on the TV for company but today her boredom allowed her switch on the 'boob tube.' Flipping through the channels, she heard music with a throbbing beat and her mouth opened in surprise. If it wasn't church music, she usually had no interest, but this, this was something! The sound faded and a man's voice said, "Buenas dias! Do you find yourself responding to the scintillating beat of the tango? Can you picture yourself gliding across the dance floor to this passionate rhythm? Do you need to satisfy that Latin desire? Well, you can. For mere pennies a day, you can start immediately. Come spend two hours in the evening two nights a week with one of our professional instructors, at no extra cost, and you'll see how easy it is to TANGO!"
For some reason, Myrtle quickly jotted down the phone number and continued searching channels hoping to find the advertisement again to hear the exciting music. The commercial affected her and she couldn't describe how it made her feel. Jeez, to think she even considered taking the damn lessons. Women her age didn't do things this stupid, this unreasonable, and then she told herself, 'Why the hell not?' The classes were in the next city, so no one would know, and besides, who gives a rat's ass what other people think? On impulse, Myrtle picked up her phone, dialed the number and waited. She almost hung up, not sure she'd really go through with it, but a pleasant man answered and the rest happened: her classes started Monday night at seven.
Driving into the city and finding a parking place became a major undertaking. Exasperated, she drove
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around the block a number of times and finally found room to park. The situation made her late and she did something she hadn't done in years - she ran. Climbing the flight of stairs to the studio also took her breath away. and panting, she stopped in the doorway to see people already paired up on the dance floor. A stocky man approached her and confirmed her to be the new pupil. She apologized for her lateness and he said, "No problem, senorita. We have yet to begin."
She cringed, took a quick step back and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. She coughed and placed the cloth over her nose. Pungent fumes of garlic hung suspended in the air around the man. Smiling, he said, "I am Cesar Santiago and I will be your partner while you learn to tango. Do you have the shoes we recommended? You do? Bueno. We must be very careful how we treat our dance floor, no?"
Myrtle looked down at the man who stood one full head shorter than she and wondered how the hell she got stuck with this little twerp with his garlic breath and thought, "Why the hell does this kind of shit always happen to me? Well for sure, I'll get my money back if it doesn't work out."
She sat on a chair, put on her shoes, and the music started. Cesar drew her out onto the dance floor and her lessons began.
Thick, black hair covered Cesar's head and black eyebrows hovered above his dark, flashing eyes. His chest, revealed by the open purple shirt, bristled with curling black hair. Snug black pants hugged his muscular legs and his black dance shoes were highly polished. He had the smooth, flawless complexion that females strive for and his teeth were brilliant white. His height found him below Myrtle's nose and the various tango positions kept her facing away from him most of the time for which she was grateful.
But...why the hell didn't someone tell her before she started how stupid she'd look? The mirrors on the studio walls reflected her clumsiness. She could kick herself for being a klutz fumbling with those damn tricky steps. Thank God, all dancers moved in the same direction avoiding collisions.
Muttering Spanish words she did not understand-- mejor, paso, jugada, lento -- Cesar held her to his chest as they performed the basic tango movements again and again. For all she knew, he could be swearing at her ineptness, but
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