Elegant Milonga

A young girl, maybe 10, a stuffed animal in the crook of her arm, walks by the ballroom with her mother. They stop to peer in.

“Go ahead,” I tell them. “It costs nothing to watch.”

The mother strides through the door, the girl hangs back. Her face is alight, her body is tilting toward the door. I recognize that: She is a dancer!

“It’s OK, take a look,” I encourage her. “You might decide to take it up.”

She won’t cross the threshold. She leans in for a quick look. Ricochets out. Looks at me half-accusing. I recognize that, too: That is “Eek!”

This is scotch-and-cigarettes dancing; she has only kissed her first boy.

“Ten years from now,” I tell her. She lets that sink in. The shine returns to her eyes.

Ten years from now: a safe distance, another whole lifetime for her. Then she will be Grown Up.

When she is a Grown Up, she will do many sophisticated things. Drink and smoke cigarettes. Drive a car. Hold a job. All those things that men and women do in the movies.

But that is far in the future; she need not go there now.

Now she steps into the ballroom, stands close to her mom. She is looking to the future, holding tight to her doll.