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“We’re about to begin, Dauphine,” she said, in what sounded like a French accent. “Can I get you
anything?”
Before I could open my mouth, a small, dimly lit band to the right of the stage struck up a ballad.
The musicians were wearing blindfolds, their heads dipping and swaying as they played their
instruments. Why were their eyes covered? The audience turned their attention to the band and the
lone spotlight now illuminating the stage. I sank back into my velvet banquette, hoping just to watch. I
could feel my heart pounding against my bodice, certain everyone could hear it too. Then I heard a
low, gravelly a cappella voice.
A stunning woman in a dress exactly like mine, but black, slowly moved from the wings of the
stage to center herself under the spotlight. Her hands surrounded the microphone, her lips a glistening
ruby red. The song was in Spanish, but I could tell its lyrics were sad. Her eyes squeezed shut as she
sang something about a girl and her heart and some broken dreams, I think. One of the couples rose
from the front row, fell into each other’s arms, dipped low in those familiar turns of the tango—each
holding the other up, a leg jutting out, kicking here and there, no light between them. Another woman,
in the tight blue dress slit to her waist, pulled her tuxedoed date onto the floor. Their dance released a
cascade of four more couples, until the singer was surrounded by a dozen bodies moving in circles to
the music. Then the singer turned to look my way, directing her passion to … to me?
The song was about passing time, about a woman who had regrets for a life not lived. Or maybe for
living a life half-awake. The singer was mesmerizing. I squirmed in my seat, uncertain how to react to
her gaze. She seemed to be very publically seducing me. Or maybe this was just the nature of the
tango. Feeling by turns charmed and embarrassed by her attention, I was relieved when a tanned hand
beckoned me to stand.
“Va a aceptar este paso?”
The hand belonged to a tall man with short, black curly hair and beautiful black eyes. He smiled,
displaying a row of white perfect teeth set against the olive of his perfectly smooth skin. I felt my
knees would dissolve to pudding if I stood.
“I’m afraid I don’t know how to dance,” I said, as loudly and politely as I could without being
louder than the singer.
“No importa,” he said, still smiling, adding, “just give yourself to me and the rest will follow. We
will take care of you.”
We? He pulled me to my feet, overwhelming me with the expanse of his chest, a black shirt tight
across his perfect torso, tucked into black pants that fit his dancer’s legs perfectly. Give yourself to
him, Dauphine. This is about Generosity.
“I accept,” I said, my gut lurching.
Grasping my hand, he led me onto the dance floor.
He threw his arm around my back and drew me in until I was fully pressed against him, my heels
between his shoes. He grabbed my other hand and held it aloft. Suddenly, I felt someone against my
back. I turned, shocked to see the beautiful singer, her eyes closed, her hand joining ours aloft, her
fingers entwining with mine. Her other hand crept up and around to my middle, just below my breasts,
pulling me back into her, and her rose perfume mixed with my dance partner’s soft musk.
“Let her help you. Feel how her body moves behind you,” my partner whispered. “Move as she
does.”
She bent her left knee, bending mine too, her left hand caressing down my leg. Facing my partner, I
felt the woman behind me pull up my skirt to reveal the top of my black garters. Before I knew what
was happening, she was sliding a warm hand along my thigh, dipping me backwards against her body.