Cap tucked on his head, he is checking me out over the rim of his glass, while taking a sip of cold beer. His stretched ear lobes allow a glimpse of the garden behind him, in their center.… As in a medallion! He is massive and tattooed from head to toe. Judging by his forearms and neck.
A light breeze from the rice field slightly lifts the flaps of my dress. We lack the men to lead us to the rhythm of the bandoneons. However, this did not take into account the tanguero lying dormant within this buffalo.
In two ticks, he is facing me. Like a confident gentleman, he grabs me and draws me towards him.
His boots set the pace, my stilettos sway in rhythm… left, right… left, right… At the eighth beat, we walk together on a sensual and rhythmic milonga.
His look betrays his amusement. He knows my astonishment. I’m not putting up any resistance. His musicality guides my steps and accompanies me. Our gazes flee, seek each other, find each other. Our footsteps cross. Each of his gestures is a firm intention and yet so subtle. I am his for a dance. I am free to seduce him. He is at my mercy.
In a manly impulse, while this footwork and seduction game are ending, he pulls me away from him and brandishes his palms facing my chest, in a "Give me five's" gesture.
And cautions me not to say a word about we just did.
- I’m supposed to be a bad boy! So if you see me anywhere other than here, don’t say we danced together on this!!!
Lastly, he gives me a brotherly hug before returning to his vantage point.
Yep, even bad boys tango.
The souls of thugs have definite elegance and are not devoid of sensitivity ... it’s a fact!
