A Lovely Night

Last night I danced all night at Halina and Chuck’s wedding blowout milonga, the party of the summer.

The Avalon ballroom is a cross between temple and fairyland: Golden hardwood stretching to eternity, a sky of draped chiffon entwined with tiny white lights.

Every favorite lead is there, a rare treat! Glenlivet is in from New York. Andrey shoots me a stern, twinkly look that says he is ready for some serious dancing. They are dashing in head-to-toe black. The Mathematician, as usual, is surrounded by women, but we know that, as usual, we'll find one another when the crowd thins.

My skirt—yards of layered silk, wrapped round and round--delivered everything it promised when it caught my eye in a shop window.

A great tango dancer once said that, to be a truly great tango dancer, one must be in love with his partner. I am in no hurry to be truly great. For a two-year dancer who has just found her feet, you can’t beat shared history and affection and the comfort of familiar physical geography of your beginner buddies, with whom you have ascended the long learning curve from your first wide-straddled, knee-lifting step.

Lovely, lovely, lovely.

At the end, they had to kick out the last few of us.

Despite the chill—cold enough to make dew on the windshields—The Mathematician and I stood under the big, full moon, chatting about this and that. It was not cold. It was that kind of night.