Magic

There’s a certain smell that comes with a dance hall. It’s not unpleasant, some mixture of sweat, dust, delight, consternation, and the leather soles of dancing shoes of every description: Sexy, strappy Latin heels, uber-conservative standard pumps, sleek flats, and jazzy, stretchy pull-ons with a separated sole for maximum mobility. There’s cologne and perfume too, and generally a lot of it, many scents mingled together. It’s the smell of sweaty hands, minty breath (or not so minty, for the unlucky), and passion.

Sensual passion, sure, especially if it’s blues night or a particularly steamy tango. But more than that, it’s a passion for the chemistry of shared movement, shared creation, shared pleasure found (potentially) in each beat of a good rhythmic tune. The potential is part of the allure.

Will it happen? Will I find someone who will glide into and against and in harmony with me in a way that satisfies the deepest, motion-sensored part of my soul? Will I dance with that partner - or many - for hours, until I am gasping for breath and my feet are pinched and burning? Or will I be polka’d off my feet by someone shorter and more wiry than I, who I can barely keep in step with? Will the creeper who would add the sensual to every style want to pull me to the floor repeatedly, will I need a good excuse? Or will my friends - the familiar but reliable - be my dancemates and fill my hunger tonight?

The magic happens in the frame, at least that’s what my dance teacher would always say. You step to your partner with a physical presence that is sturdy but pliable, willing but resolute. Your grip on each other is not a death grip, but neither is it spineless, passive, or wishy-washy. You move, and as you move, you feel and sense and delight in the other’s movement. It’s a duet of two bodies, two minds, two beings who oppose and yet compliment each other in focused, and hopefully shared, enchantment.

The alternative, or absence of this consummation, can taste bitterly of mindless boredom and awkward, moist palms, and too much ice water to drown your sorrows. Therein lies the risk. Do I venture out tonight? But the memory pulls me, calls to my limbs and my toes and my heart until usually ... the answer is yes.