Someone once told me that love is like the tango; once you learn the steps, it’s a pattern that’s simple to maneuver. I hate dancing.
I didn’t always hate dancing. I believe it all began the evening I first tangoed with him. The occasion doesn’t matter. It was all diamonds and glitter, but I couldn’t enjoy it because across the room, there he was watching me. I knew why, but couldn’t he be a little more blasé about it? He could, of course, but he knew I hated when he stared. I couldn’t contain myself, I shot him one of my iciest glares. His stone-faced stare cracked and his face broke into a wide smile, which he covered with a hand, a horrible attempt at composure since anyone could tell he was laughing from the glint in his eye.
He stood and made his way toward me, weaving through the labyrinth of tables and waiters, never breaking eye contact with me. While his eyes were on me, every female eye in the room was on him, and he knew it. If he wanted attention, he got it.
He was terrible at covert operations, and I told him so as soon as he was sitting next to me. He laughed, a merry, deep chuckle, and took my hand.
“Sometimes,” he began, raising an eyebrow and leading me to the center of the ballroom floor, leading me into the end of a waltz, “being covert doesn’t mean blending in. Sometimes it’s more of a thrill to pull everything off with every eye in the room glued to you.”
“Ha!” I pointed a finger at him as the orchestra began to play a tango. “You’re not in this for the better good of anyone but yourself.” His lighthearted expression turned dark, and his steps quickened and intensified. I went on, “You’re just here for the thrill of it, not to help anyone! You’re just-”
I stopped because the look on his face had turned from dark to grave and somehow, I didn’t really dare to speak. “Who said I was here to help anyone?” he said, and then he released my hands, turned and calmly walked back to his seat.