Tango

A narrow staircase leads us to a second-floor studio. We squeeze ourselves into the back as the instructor begins the warm-up.

I sway with the night air as it hangs in the few spaces between us. Our collective movements are clunky. High on excitement and nerves, I eagerly follow the steps. We form a circle. The instructor partners us up with a stranger.

"Welcome to Salsa Speed Dating!!" she shouts over the hum of forced greetings.

Boyfriend shoots me a look, "WHAT?! We're at a speed dating salsa class?!"

Bemused and shocked, I smile and say, "I guess so!"

A personality prone to tantrums, and a disorder that causes his hands and feet to sweat profusely, especially under stress, are culprits of the boyfriend's disproportionate reaction. Displeased with the unexpected plot twist, he and his clammy hands spitefully drift away from me as the music picks up.

I giggle at the hilarity of this rom-com-worthy moment. On-screen, it's predictable; a woman attends a dance class with a crotchety boyfriend, and the dance class turns into a salsa speed dating whirlwind. A few partners in, she finds true love's spark in someone else.

Not my luck.

With my comfort zone gone and awkward small talk in its place, I give myself to the moment. The circle undulates. We switch partners every two minutes. The boyfriend's head is on a swivel, throwing dirty looks my way; I'm sorry for his partner.

I return to the task at hand; I will have to summarize this experience for my summer college course. I know the strangers becoming intimate dance partners will take it to the next level.

Boyfriend takes himself out of the rotation. I stay put.

I'm many poor choices away from my rom-com moment.