Tango, Tangle, or a simple story of a man named Manuel - Part 2 (the end)
Read Part One
"I haven't danced in some years." Manuel apologized as a delivery truck idled outside the ballroom windows, setting the floor to rumble, the band to skip a beat, two, laugh, rest fingers, strings, voices. The dancers idled, too, moved legs in practice shuffle and arc.
"That's ok. I only know the basic tango steps. I will probably step on your shiny shoes." My eyes studied Manuel's cream-colored suit, the way it draped a body thick with muscle. I could feel his heart beat through his jacket, down his arm, into my right hand, chaotic, unsure. He wore dancer's boots and a bracelet made of an etched silver talisman strung on black leather.
He must be around my age, I thought. He has the same tired eyes, the same dark wisdom.
He smiled at me, his hair thick and wet with gel that smelled of amole and mineral oil. "Please don't worry. We can be useless together."
I liked the words he used, the way he hid something behind them, the quiet echo of his voice. The static truck faded to nothing. The band lifted instruments, and I heard the shuffle of couples moving into position. Manuel snaked his hand behind my back in a delicate wave as if he was afraid of breaking me into tiny pieces. He pulled me close and I heard him suck the air through my hair, breath the scent of my rosemary shampoo, my skin, deep into my skeleton, and I felt my body respond in the ways dance promises.
Allá en la casta apartada
donde cantan las espumas
el misterio de las brumas
y los secretos del mar,
yo miraba los caprichos
ondulantes de las olas
llorando mi pena a solas,
mi consuelo era el mirar.
The song told a story of an ocean of pain, and my feet slid right, then left, forgotten steps from some class six eons ago, but Manuel kept me steady, pure. I couldn't believe it, the way he danced, the way he made me dance. His frame covered mine, led mine, pulled me from a scratched pine floor to a dancehall in heaven, or hades, I didn't know which, only knew it undulated and fractured in a million pieces of motion and sound, captured my spirit and tossed it outside, made me grow a new one, a solid one full of blue faded slip twirl perfection. We danced beyond the center, into the outer rings of the hall, with dips and anchors no other couple attempted. I never danced like that, never let a man make demands of time and tempo, and I felt my heart match his heartache, match his syncopation, match his beads of sweat cascading from his forehead.
We danced six songs, watched couple after couple stop and stare, stop and rest, and we heard the band choose songs meant to snap us to eternity, until only our feet hit the boards, hit the walls, beat the band at telling a tale of madhouse redemption until I could dance no more. People snapped photos as we posed. I asked Manuel for a break.
"Let's sit and talk by the fireplace." I let my hand drop from his neck, pointed to a loveseat far from the music, and led him for the first time across the floor.
"Birdie, I have to leave. This is too much, too soon for me." Manuel stared at me through eyes dark and hesitant. "I just got out of prison."
I closed my eyes, my thoughts, tried to understand the fractal pattern of light and emotion we demonstrated in sidewinder grace for strangers who paid seven dollars for the privilege.
"Manuel, I don't care. Just sit with me and tell me your story. What is it? Drugs? Robbery? I don't care. You dance like an angel, like someone with the gift of physical prophecy. We can talk. We don't have to dance."
I wouldn't let go of his hand, tried to pull him to the couch, to a safe place to unload his misery, but his will was stronger, more focused, and he let me go in the middle of the ballroom as everyone watched.
"Birdie. I killed a woman I loved. Twenty-one years ago. I have paid my debt. Or I haven't. I'm not sure. I wanted to dance, but now I understand that I want the peace of it. I need to be away from women like you."
I watched Manuel run through the door. His body cast a shadow like Godzilla against the ballroom wall, and I willed him peace, willed him love and sanctuary. I wondered if he might have killed me if we continued, if our dance fell through eight levels of hell. The couples took their places once again, and I picked up my purse and slowly walked from the hall. I tripped in the place I last saw Manuel. My purse fell to the floor, fell open, and all my Avon samples spread in a pattern like our soles against the wood, like his sadness and my confusion, mirrored patterns of loss and redemption.
I left those samples splayed along the exit, left them to rot or use, walked into the pinprick of sun still left behind the row of pinon trees lining the street. The third-quarter moon stared at me, seemed to send me a message, something like laughter, something only the celestial can understand, something like love.
9:31:36 PM 
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