"Is this a dagger that I see before me?"
A tanguera removing a pair of particularly deadly-looking--and
beautiful--shoes at the end of the evening.
A tanguera removing a pair of particularly deadly-looking--and
beautiful--shoes at the end of the evening.
In a clumsy move, I accidentally strike my big toe with the sharp heel of my other shoe while executing a cross. (I do that sometimes. I think the truth is that I'm just a klutz who sometimes manages to hide it well enough to fool people.) In the past, I might have whimpered with the pain, but tonight I manage to keep quiet, although I half-expect to see blood oozing when I next look down, between songs.
At home that night, I trim the splintered nail and remember an Argentine teacher who, when I did a similar thing once while dancing with him, told me that the tops of the older tangueras' feet are scarred with scratches from doing the very same thing. I think of the times I've been on the sharp end of other women's heels when dancing on crowded floors.
At home that night, I trim the splintered nail and remember an Argentine teacher who, when I did a similar thing once while dancing with him, told me that the tops of the older tangueras' feet are scarred with scratches from doing the very same thing. I think of the times I've been on the sharp end of other women's heels when dancing on crowded floors.
If we love tango, and dance it enough, is it inevitable that we will bleed?
