Eva gives me a thumbs up. She takes my hand and places it on her waist. She puts a palm on my shoulder and takes my other one. Our fingers interlace, and finally Eva leans in to me so that my lungs fill with the perfume I was craving.
“Salsa is an eight-beat count, one-two-three-pause, five-six-seven-pause. Stop looking at your feet and don’t forget to move your hips. Let’s try the steps together,” she says.
I’d love to say it all goes well at first trial, but it would be a lie. It sounded so easy when Eva spelled out the numbers to me, but as I’m desperately counting in my head, again and again, the rhythm just slips away.
I make blunder after blunder. First, when Eva wants to turn, I mess up and she ends up crushed against my chest. Then, when she steps backwards, I do too, instead of going forward. Next, I forget to pause and nearly smash her foot.
Very soon I’m utterly discouraged by my lack of talent. I start eyeing the others to check whether I can learn tricks and to see if they notice my bloopers. Why do all the men here look like they’ve just stepped out of a Buena Vista Social Club video? They act like it’s the easiest thing in the world to move in synchrony with someone else. How the heck do they do it? And why can’t I?
Eva stops and grabs me at my shoulders. “Nathan, don’t overthink this. When you make a mistake, find the beat and keep going.”
I stare at Eva as her words sink in.
At work I’m brutal on myself when I commit an error. I obsess about why it happened until I’m sure that I’ve learned my lesson. It’s exhausting sometimes, but it’s the way I’ve always been. A perfectionist. I focus on the results and do not care or enjoy the process of getting there.
Eva gives me a smile. “Let’s do this once more, but this time concentrate only on me, okay? There’s nothing else around. Forget the people, forget the pressure. Let yourself be carried away.”
We start again.
I lose the beat after only a few steps, but Eva gently guides me back to it. She lowers my hold on her back slightly so I can anticipate where her hips are going to turn before they actually do. Her eyes never leave mine, and the encouraging beam stays on her soft lips.
I don’t know how it happens or why, but suddenly I’m not tripping over my feet or jerking my limbs in an uncoordinated manner. No, following the melody goes much easier than before. I’m not certain if it’s due to the fact that I’m not as wooden-legged as I first thought, or if it’s the luscious sensation that holding Eva’s slender waist unlocks in me, but I’m starting to enjoying this lesson. A lot.
Who would have thought?
After only three songs, I’ve got the basics down so well that Eva decides to teach me how to make her turn around, together with another more complex maneuver that makes us do two twirls to end up face to face again without ever releasing each other’s hands fully. She grins at me when we manage this difficult one together.
A strange pride takes possession of me and my previous apprehension dissolves entirely.
Dancing is FUN and I never knew…
A few strands of hair escape her bun and curl playfully at the side of her ears. Her cheeks are flushed from the torrid air and, I hope, from my closeness.
“So, your verdict so far?” she peers up at me.
I whirl her around and when she lands back in my arm, I grin at her. “I think I might become a fan after all.”
She giggles, and the sound of her joy makes my chest quiver. My body vibrates with an unknown energy. I attempt a Hollywood-style, backward dip with Eva, and we almost trip. But instead of feeling ashamed, I just laugh at myself. I don’t think of the bet or about how much depends on the outcome of our night. I’m just enjoying myself, something I haven’t done in a very, very long time.
Or possibly ever?
The song finishes and after a short pause, the singer of the band speaks into the microphone. “Ahorita, a little break for your legs and some work for your lips.” He wiggles his brows and claps his hands.
I give Eva a questioning glance and am surprised to find that she’s avoiding my eyes.
“Do you know what comes now?” I ask.
“Yes, it’s the slow hour. The band will play love songs.” A sensual melody’s first clangs fill the air. Eva points in the direction of our table. “Shall we get back? Our nachos should be there already.”
Before I can respond, Murphy’s baritone interrupts us. “Don’t stop now, you two! Food can wait. These songs are the occasion to rest a little and…” He hauls Judy to his chest as if to demonstrate how it’s done and winks. “Catch your breath.”
Or to lose it entirely…
Eva blushes and her body becomes rigid in my arms.
Murphy and Judy sway their way to the middle of the dance floor again, leaving us alone. Or as alone as we can be with sixty other people around us.
Eva’s eyes travel to mine. “D-d-do you want to dance to this?”
Cozying up with Eva in a slow dance is just what I need to push
