Extract from short story

TANGO STORY BY ALISON SUMMERS

Language has its limitations. Even when you both speak the same language, it’s still possible to be misunderstood. Body language isn’t much better. Everyone reacts to it unconsciously and I really mean unconsciously. How many times have you found yourself palming your bare throat in front of a man you don’t fancy? So why are you sending out the classic signal of “here I am, come fuck me”? Is it nature’s way of ensuring optimal chance of procreation? So lingo is unreliable.
Tango, now – a whole new ball game. See first of all, you can’t just meet someone and tango off down the road with them. Oh, no. You settle into the embrace. The degree of closeness is up to you. Choose from cheek to cheek, head to head, melted into each other or leaning in but with caution. Now create a connection. With your body. You have to connect through the weight you put on your feet. So during the first few bars of music you both shift from foot to foot until you end up on the same feet as each other – when he is on his right foot, you are also on your right foot. To the uninitiated it can look as though you are both fidgeting because you need the loo.........
The first time I came across this technique I wondered why we hadn’t just started dancing. I thought the guy was a bit shy and cautious about launching. As indeed he should have been since inevitably when he set off, I set off on the wrong foot. Eventually, I learnt what the hopping about was all about and now I can shift subtly from left to right with the best of them.
This connection lark is not just about getting off on the right foot, though. In tango the couple learn to dance as one body. One way of looking at it is as though your hearts are stuck together. At all times your torsos have to be parallel. So whatever your leggies are
doing – whizzing about, lifting in the air, kicking in between the partner’s legs, your hearts have to be within whispering distance. Which is nice.
“Tango is so sexy!” That’s what everyone says. Hmm. It’s quite hard work actually. It is the most knackering mental exercise I have ever done. You, see, you have to really concentrate and I mean really. The slightest distraction like a nagging thought about that colleague you forget to phone or the motto on your partner’s t-shirt can break the connection between you and your partner in seconds. To dance tango you have to give your whole brain to it. Multitasking goes out the window. It’s heart to heart, two beating as one.
I’m not your obvious tango dancer. I don’t like sex, I’m not super skinny, dark or dashing. I don’t go on holiday to Latin countries and I’m not naturally graceful. In fact if it hadn’t been for that daft sharing your hobby exercise at the literacy class.............yeah, well we all had to do a ten minute presentation on our fave leisure pursuit (I demonstrated stain removal from dry clean only fabrics) and Carol brought in a selection of dance films. The ballet and the belly dancing left me cold and normally I don’t go for Antonio Banderas – he looks a bit worn and dirty. But the way that woman danced in that grotty school cellar. It made me feel hot under the collar. She was beautiful, yes but there was something else. The way she moved you could feel the magnetic pull she had on both her partner and her audience. Sucking them in, so that they couldn’t look anywhere but at her.
So I did some research. Couldn’t believe it when I found that there was a huge tango scene in Edinburgh. If you want to, you can dance tango every night. I plumped for the free class on Sunday nights. I was so nervous beforehand I had to keep ducking into local cafes to go to the loo. I nearly went home but eventually pulled myself away from the toilet and climbed the stairs to the Counting House function room. Up an unpromising stair the tango room turned out to be a confection of mirrors, red velvet and dark wood panelling. Around the walls were chairs behind small tables decorated by tall thin vases filled with carnations. Issuing from the pores of the wall wailed a mournful air that pulled at the heartstrings and instantly made you want to glide on the glossy wooden floor. There were two or three girls sitting down, chatting to each other. A short plump man with a shiny pate bustled about arranging the chairs. I sat down near the door and pushed off my outdoor shoes. I slipped my high heeled sandals (the ones I wear once a year in Bulgaria) out of my Lidl bag and struggled to fix the fiddly buckles round my ankles.