Like the women I’d met dancing the tango,
I came to it wounded and in it I found healing and redemption. The road to the
cure, however, was a winding, unmarked highway with no speed limits through
forbidden territory in the dark of night. That highway had brought me here,
parked in the driveway of another man’s home, alone with his wife in my van, a
situation that was setting off alarm bells and warning lights in my mind.
Ruth’s hand was halfway to the door
handle when the laser light pierced the darkness. A small red dot shone like a
poisoned jewel on the married woman's forehead. The spot of light
jittered on her skin like a tiny monster invading the shadows of my ride.
I should have
pushed her out, hit the gas and given up on this foolish quest forever…but I
didn’t. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. I couldn’t tell if this was caused
by the incredibly thick air of sensuality surrounding us or the thought of a possible
confrontation with her spouse.
So far,
no sins had been committed though I sensed that we were on the verge. Innocent
as we both were, I’m certain we looked guilty as hell. We suffered from an affection
deficit disorder and the remedy, a delicate berry protected by a very thorny bush, was
near. But it was not for me to pick; it was for her. She needed to decide if
she would reach for it, or for me, or do nothing and continue her life of
suffering. I feared she would choose the path of pain; it was a monkey on her
back but it was a familiar one that she could bear because she could not yet
imagine a life without it.
Getting
mixed up with me would only have added to her burden and I would have rebuffed
her even if she did succumb to temptation. Two years into my love affair with
tango, I was well acquainted with sexual tension and I knew it was my
responsibility to be the one who could say, “No.”
It was 1 a.m. Her
split level house was located in a well-kept subdivision of a small college
town. I cut the lights and everything was quiet except for the smooth hum of
the engine. Somehow I knew this was not a real threat and
resisted the notion to grab her and throw her to the floor like James Bond
would have done in the movies.
Instead, I
asked, struggling to sound cool, calm and collected, “Ruth, do you know there’s a red light shining onto your
forehead?”
“Yes,” she
replied with a weary resignation, “it’s my husband. I can see him in the
window. He thinks he’s being funny.” She drew a breath and continued in a
wistful, far-off voice, “You’re not really the man driving me to tango…he is.”
Braving
the thorns, she had reached in and picked the tiny but succulent fruit. She needed to put words to
her reality instead of living in denial that there was a problem; there was
definitely a problem. That’s why she was here with me, that’s why we had just driven
sixty miles and back to find a place where tango was danced on a weeknight. The
monkey was gone and she breathed a heavy sigh filled with relief and
trepidation.
Hey, check out this book about witches and zombies that dance tango:
I've been working on this book for a year and this is what I've gotten done so far. I like it but it's going to be a long wait for the rest. If you'd like to read more of me, check out my books available on Amazon and Kindle:
No comments:
Post a Comment