Page 11 of Two to Tango

I’m home, in my carefully curated downtown condo, the one only three miles from my office. Where I don’t have mismatched picture frames covering every corner of wall space. Or a leaf in my kitchen table to extend it for company. It’s not loud and booming, not filled with the sounds of conversation and music.

This home is quiet. It’s simple. It’s efficient. I liked that at first, how I could finally hear myself think after so many years growing up in a boisterous household, but right now it feels uncomfortably desolate.Tooquiet,toosimple. It might as well be a hotel room.

And these shoes deserve better.

Why the hell did I get her shoes?

I set the box down on the coffee table and bring my laptop over from my desk. I want to see her again, if only for a couple of minutes. If only through a screen. Nobody knows that I keep her old YouTube videos bookmarked for viewing whenever I get particularly sad. Or when I’ve had a long week. When I just need a little comfort in the form of her dancing. Nobody needs to know that I hold onto it like a child.

Delfi was the first to find these videos, one night when she took to looking up Argentinian travel guides and stumbled upon videos of Argentina’s most famous female tango dancer in between. There were only a handful then, but every now and then a new one will pop up—an old competition, a compilation of certain moves, a study on pivots.

I pull up the videos now, cueing up the first one. There she is: as graceful as ever, like seeing an old friend. And there are the shoes. Steps back, steps to the side, steps forward. A glide, a turn. I know these moves by heart now. I know the timing of them. At the one minute and fifteen second mark, there’s a perfect turn. At the two minute and twelve second mark there’s a dramatic pose.

I can feel my body slow down as it sinks into the couch. Like the equivalent of a warm cup of tea or the softest, plushiest blanket, I sink into this video, the dance, and the music.

The video ends, but a new one starts to play. One I haven’t seen before that was recently uploaded.

A compilation of celebrated dancer Celestina Rossi at the San Diego Tango Festival in honor of the upcoming festival this winter.

Suddenly, I’m eight again. I’m bright-eyed and captivated and so deeply sad. I miss her so much, a deep grief that has burrowed its way into my heart and made an uncomfortable home there.

My grandmother started dancing when she was around twelve during what was considered the golden age of tango. As she got older, she would sneak away to clubs at night and dance with whoever was willing to dance with her. And during those nights was how she met my grandfather, who had found himself in these clubs because his father played in the bands. He always tells the story of how he felt an immediate connection when he saw her, and by the third time they had run into each other, he was in love. And he told her as much. My grandmother laughed in his face, but she kept dancing with him. And she kept meeting up with him. And then they got married and competed all over the world. For my grandmother, tango might have seemed like the love of her life, but she always said it gave her the love of her life. And that held its own value.

My eyes then turn to the shoes on the table next to the laptop. As I look at them in the box, I can’t help but wonder what they would feel like on my feet.

“Well, they’re mine now,” I say to myself. “I guess I could just …”

I take them out of the box, hands shaking, delicately holding them. I’m almost waiting for them to turn to dust in my hands. A trick, an illusion. This whole thing has been a dream.

As I slide into the shoes, they feel perfect. Almosttooperfect. Scarily perfect. The indents of her toes are embedded into the soles and mine fit into the space effortlessly. I stand and walk around, turning and twisting, striding from one end to the other.I could wear these shoes every moment of every day and feel entirely comfortable.

These shoes have seen the world. They’ve seen joy and wild abandon, power and grace. These shoes have had alifeand now they have somehow managed to end up here, with me.

I put the lid back on and carry them with me to my bedroom. Once I set them down on the nightstand, I turn my lamp on. I can’t bear to put them away in the closet. Not now, not yet. So, I sneak glances at them while I brush my teeth, the start of my nighttime checklist. I think about the feel of them while I wash my face, step two. But I don’t grab my cases, and I don’t look through any folders, and I don’t think about work.

I think about the shoes. And I leave them there on the nightstand right next to me, the very last thing in my line of sight until I eventually fall asleep.

My alarm wakes me blaring at five am, and I stumble out of bed, still exhausted. I don’t want to move my body. It takes effort to do anything. When I look over and see the box on my nightstand, everything comes flooding back, as if I assumed the night before was some highly realistic dream.

I shower, get dressed, check my emails—three from Barbara—and brew coffee into my mug. The drive to work is mindless. I might as well be sleepwalking. I sip on my coffee as I listen to some news podcast, zoning out in the process. I go over my mental to-do list again: the notes from Barbara, the clients I need to contact, the standing meeting with Yuli’s Latina networking group tomorrow.

And once I get to the office, say my good mornings, and get another to-do item tacked on by Barbara, I fall into my chair and take one long deep breath in.

***

“Julie? Julie?”

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring into space, but Larissa’s concerned face that comes into view might be telling.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m alright,” I respond.

“How’s the case coming along?”

“It’s coming. Yeah, it’s good. Working away at it.” I might be nodding my head too vigorously, so I stop, which just makes every move I make that much more jarring.

“Alright.” She sounds unconvinced. “Want to head to lunch in a bit?”

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