Page 84 of Dead Set on You
Which is how we’re standing inside the gym of the Norwood Park Senior Center, waiting for the 1:30PMLatin dancing class with Alma Cabal to start. Bucket list item #14:Take professional dance lessons(and not one of those I discovered on YouTube).
It would take most people at least twenty-four hours to plan it, but not Rafael. In less than an hour, he managed to get the name of a friend from his grandmother and drive us twenty minutes north of downtown (minimal car sickness included).
Not long after stepping into the gym, he was greeted by the dance instructor. Alma, a lithe sixty-something Puerto Rican woman, whose big hair is pulled up into a ponytail and whose eye makeup is something out of a TikTok tutorial, didn’t blink when Rafael walked into the center and told her he wanted to try one of her classes.
And here we are in a dance studio that—between peeling walls and a water-stained ceiling—has seen better days, but none of the students filling the room seem to mind. They’re chattering excitedly as they find their places around the room, their energy palpable. Something I wouldn’t have imagined, given everyone is over the age of sixty-five. Everyone except Rafael.
I’m standing off to the side, beneath an open window, catching bits of conversations about grandchildren and recitals, retirement trips and bridge clubs. Rafael hasn’t moved from where a group of ladies swarmed him upon entering. They’ve been pinching and patting him since, oohing and aahing at whatever he’s been telling them. And I bet it has nothing to do with grandchildren or bridge games.
He tried to extricate himself from their manicured hands, which only resulted in them holding on even longer and tighter. So he’s offered me several apologetic smiles and shrugs, but I’ve been enjoying every minute of it, and we haven’t even started the class.
“All right, everybody!” Alma’s voice echoes off the yellowing walls. She claps her hands, then raises her voice. “We’re going to start!” Some seniors snap to attention; others continue to chat away until they’re nudged by their friends, who shush them and point in Alma’s direction.
Alma sashays across the room in her spandex-and-lace ensemble, headed for Rafael. The chittering ladies part around him, reluctant to give Alma the space. She swats at a grabby hand and tugs Rafael to her side. “We have a guest with us today.”
“And what a handsome guest,” chimes one of the women, teetering on shiny kitten heels despite her body being curved by age. She squeezes Rafael’s bicep with a waggle of her silver eyebrows, and I almost snort-laugh out loud. Rafael smiles between the two women.
“Martha, you wouldn’t want to make Horace jealous,” Alma says, shooing Martha toward an older man who’s dozing and drooling on a bench in the corner. This time the laugh snorts out of me, and I cover my mouth, catching Rafael’s attention. He winks. My heart spins and dips in response.
Alma, undeterred by her unruly audience, continues. “This is Rafael, and he is here for a lesson because he is trying to impress a lady.”
“Oo-oo-ooh.”
“Aaaah.”
Rafael looks meaningfully at me, and because I left my better judgment at the hospital, I blush and glance from him to Alma, who is a head shorter but no less imposing with her arched posture and intense gaze. Must be something in their Latin blood, I’m sure.
“And because of that, mis amigos, we are going to do one of my favorite dances today …” She pauses for effect. The room goes quiet for a moment, save for the whirring of the ancient fans hanging from the equally ancient ceiling tiles. “The tango!”
“Oo-oo-ooh.”
“Aaaah.”
Hands clap loudly. Horace startles awake.
“Now, everyone, partner up!” At her command, the swarm of seniors detach from Rafael and listen to their instructor. They find their partners, some in walkers and others in orthopedic footwear, leaving him alone at the center of the room. Unbothered by the fact that he’s on his own, that his doting fans have abandoned him, Rafael brushes his unruly hair off his forehead and straightens his shoulders.
Even in jeans and a tee, Rafael’s allure defies clothing. It’s unfair, really. Worse yet, I’ve seen him without it, and it’s thelastthing I should be thinking about, because Rafael is staring at me.
And beckoning me with the crook of his finger.
Mortified, I shake my head. No. Absolutely not. There’s no way I can be near him now, not when my chest feels like a furnace burning at max temp.
Come here,he mouths.
I shake my head again and snap my gaze elsewhere. To safer things. Like the couple in the corner, their matching outfits enough to make me believe in love eternal. The wife leans her head on her partner’s chest, and he begins to sway, dancing to some silent song.
A clap of Alma’s hands breaks the moment. Music starts, swelling through the room, and I chance a look back …
Alma and Rafael stand at the center of the room. Everyone else has paired up.
“It’s time to get started,” Alma announces. “Rafael will join those of you practicing the leader’s parts, and I will partner with him as soon as I make sure you are all doing what you are supposed to be doing.” She pats his back and begins to wind through the group, adjusting couples’ limbs. A hand here. A foot there. Heads tilted just so.
“The tango is a dance about love …” she says, instructing a couple to lock eyes. “And intimacy.” She encourages another pair to pull closer. “And it is my favorite, because it is muy sensual!” She nudges a couple closer together until their bodies touch.
The tempo picks up.
Martha leans into Horace, who wraps her in his arms. She peers up at him, murmuring something that makes him stroke slow, soothing circles along her back. My chest tightens, squeezing out the air and any illusion that I’m fine. Because I may never have that.
