Private Dancer (Part 2)

In the Ladies' cramped space, everyone is trying to be accommodating; well there is no other way. She can see them standing behind her, the reflection in the cracked small mirror does not compliment any of the girls standing there.

It amuses her how shared misery brings people closer together; she had seen this experience so many times before. This is true specially when people lose their protective personal shields of niceties, social etiquette: no barriers to separate or divide.

Briefly she loses her mind; again, she is nearly sixteen years old, back in one of those cold evenings, up in the mountains. It is very difficult to breath. To keep warm, and to keep up with the hope that there is an end, some time soon. To think there is an ending to all these require too much effort from within. Like everyone else she has resigned herself to her fate. She waits for it to decide what happens next. If there is a future she does not know of it yet.

The wind blows hard. Sharp. Every blow feels like blades of knives, cutting into her face, her hands, her feet, all her body feels gradually getting more numb with all that pain. She has stopped missing her privileged past. To distract herself she stares into the pitiful small fire that struggles to heat some water. A pot that promises hot tea if the water ever comes to boil. Everyone is waiting, patience is something that is learnt only if it has to, and sometimes it is the only thing that we learn how to. Her cheeks feel frozen. The blood rushing onto surface misleads any onlooker to thinking that everyone is hot. Maybe it is a fever. Red is not a truthful colour. Her nostrils are still sensing the scent of bullets, guns, fire and the burning homes, houses and all that were 'life'. She both hates and misses what she has known.

Whenever things become really rough, beyond the point of feeling of shame, and just prior to the last stretch of hope for personal survival, she knows there is an expanse, like a desert, a barren familiars place where people behave differently there.

These moments are sometimes a great deal louder. They amplify echoes of a past she can not forget. All she wants is, not to be reminded of them. She knows 'it is impossible to forget'.

The Ladies has a humid air, everyone is trying to dry up quickly and join the rest inside. The milonga is busy tonight, more than the usual, the rain has brought everyone out here, strange.

Every few seconds, someone apologises, saying "Sorry!" for bumping and brushing against one another, The Ladies is crowded and space is tight. The younger looking girl, standing closest to her, has no problem with her own or anybody else's personal space. She comfortably brushes against everyone else, continues to hold on to someone's arm to help her balance till she puts on her shoe, smiles and does the same for her other shoe while hanging from a different person's arm. Her smiles are charming and somehow manage to disarm any objectionable remarks anyone could have made to her. Her careless moves are more proofs stating that she is carefree,happy with herself, and loves her life as it is.

She has seen her frequently before. An attractive girl, mousy colour short hair, always dressed in scantily sexy dresses, with an hourglass shaped body. Her body can be the envy of every woman, and also the dream of many men wanting to hold her, to adore and to love forever more. She looks to be in her mid twenties, carefree and happy, with a zestful behaviour that excites people around her. It is very apparent that she lives, and loves, to taste every moment of her life.

They are to make the best of the small hand dryer on the wall. It is to help them with their hair and wet cloths, and the small hazy mirror hanging there keeps steaming up. The Ladies has become a makeshift laundry/drier room, hair saloon and cloak room.

The bizarreness of it all brings out the best of humour in all. Everyone begins to crack some jokes, mostly laughing at their own bit of mishaps, and soon their laughter can be heard outside.

Unlike men who try their very best not to meet another man's eyes and may engage in any foolish tactics not to have to utter a single sentence in a Gents toilet, the women use the Ladies as a private meeting room, a place where talking gossips is a must, relationships are discussed, advices are given and taken, assessments on the competition are made, a good soothing cry can be had, make-ups are refreshed, fashion, men, life and anything else imaginable can be talked about. Even when there is no other woman there, a mobile is all one needs and soon a friend is called and rescue is at hand.

Women relate. Men detach. Women Connect; men disconnect and separate; women understand teamwork; men have always remained ignorant of this and can only strive to compete. Such a waste.

That is what women do; a simple and effective way to battle against men's territorial mentality and drive for doom.

They are nearly dry, done.

It has been a short while now that 'men' are being talked about. The antiques of some, they all know of them; they have all shared experiences of dancing with some. These bring them laughter mixed with tearful eyes. Make ups need to be retouched. Once this has started they can not stop themselves, louder laughter, with every added comment, there is so much fun.

The shared stories, cringing faces, rolling eyes, all these are followed by more hearty laughter, the hilarity of it all keeps everyone amused. The seeds of new friendships are planted. Men are the best reference for women cheering other women up; women have their reasons!

She is almost done. She feels a lot better by now. She looks and feels attractive, confident about her appearance. Her initial anger and annoyance has totally left her. She feels good about her evening ahead. It will be a short one, but she promises herself she will be making the most of it. Three of them leave the Ladies. They walk and enter the milonga room together, with poise, smiling, radiant and looking great.

The hall is filled with the sound of the "bailarín compadrito" and the voice of Tino García, it is such pleasure to hear this. "Dance my friend, you wanted to prove another life" she says to herself. Ignore the rest, just capture the moment, that is the best.

Before long she and her new found friends are dancing their hearts out. Her eyes are shut. She surrenders herself to tango, once more, "It is good to forget sometimes, it is time to welcome!, Let's make new ones!" she tells herself.

In the silence of her inner-self; she now finds this place again. This is somewhere private, she has come to love this inner space inside her mind, in her heart of hearts.

There is so much calm within her, here, now, she enjoys being her own private dancer.

A Short Tango Story by MilongaCat.