Salsa

by Jennifer Lee

Louis is much shorter than I am; I could kiss his forehead. Paisley shirt and ponytail, studious glasses. He is from Mexico, I think. I like his warm arms, his hand cupping my shoulder as if it were a broken wing. He looks in my eyes and patiently counts: one, two, three...five, six, seven.

We rotate through the partners and I dance with a Jim, a Paul, a Dan. They are polite and sweaty, counting their steps and trying to look as if they enjoy this. I meet their eyes and smile, weak apology for my feet always being in the wrong place.

After the lesson I join the open session and stand against the wall, swinging my hips hopefully. The couples are amazing, spinning in perfect synchronicity. I want what they have: the flight, the lightness, the wordless connection. I have worn the right skirt, bright orange, and it will twirl like fire when I spin, when someone finally asks me to dance. A good dancing partner will make all the difference.

The man who asks me is short, like Louis, with warm brown skin, and I am filled with expectation. He is younger than me and very, very good. He is chewing cinnamon gum, and I breathe in the sweet scent as he looks over my shoulder, searching, I think, for his next partner. I try hard to please him, to pick up the rhythms. I smile when I fail.

The song ends, and he finishes with a flourish, raising our crossed arms above my head, then letting his hands rain down my body in a smooth, light touch. His eyes find mine for a brief instant while his hands pass over my hips. When the next song begins he pulls me closer. The scent of his cinnamon breath mingles with sweat and cologne, and he takes chances, pressing his chest against mine. Now I can feel the salsa beat, that eight beat count. That is about how long he touches my breasts before the music moves us apart.

He swings me, crossing my arms in front, holding me tight, and for a moment I feel him press into me from behind. Then he twirls me away, faster and harder. I have to work to keep up. At the end of the song he leads me to the bar, my wrist clasped in his hand. I follow.

All night I follow. I follow his fast salsa step, his sweaty touching. I follow when he leads me to a dark wall, presses his body hard against mine, his tongue deep in my mouth. I don’t even know his name.

By midnight I am damp with touching, my flaming skirt limp against my legs. When he goes to the bathroom I slip away, avoiding the awful possibility that my partner will lead me out into the night, assuming what I have allowed him to assume all evening.

It is raining. In the window's reflection I see my shoulders, how the rain and the street light find them, make them glisten like eggshells, cold and wet and naked. I take off the shoes, my hands shaking, and the rough cement is warm against my feet. Once in the car, I look at my face in the rearview mirror. The mascara has run, and I look like a woman who has been crying. My hair is limp and falling across my face. My mother would say I resemble something the cat dragged in. Possibly a dead bird.