It was milonga night and I had been dancing through the evening, sometimes well, sometimes not. Tango is a dance, a set of steps, a state of mind and a connection, and some of the guys were better at the steps than they were at leading their dance partner, particularly a beginner like myself.
I sat down to take a drink of water, and noticed I needed to rebuckle my new tango shoes.
As I finished buckling the shoe, suddenly he materialized in front of me. His tango shoes shone in the light, and his tuxedo must have been custom-made by Ermenegildo Zegna himself. “May I have this dance?” he asked in a deep and rather mysterious voice. He sounded like Chicago guy with an Australian accent.
I extended my hand and we started dancing to Poema. He was a wonderful dancer. He had the steps, the musicality, the right state of mind, and the connection. No one danced better, and because of his lead, I had never danced better. How does a Chicago guy get an Australian accent, I wondered as we glided across the floor.
The song was nearly over and I was about to ask him when the dance floor started to open and exposed a vast deep pool filled with man-eating sharks. The crowd panicked as a couple fell into the waters and the sharks feasted on them.
Without missing a step or loosening his embrace, he led me to the entrance and with a swift move managed to both hit the switch that closed the shark pit and concluded the final dance step.
He then said, “It’s late. I must go tend to my blog.” Breathless, I asked, “You’re a blogger, too? What’s your blog?”
“Iowahawk,” and he disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived.