When my tango bootcamp began last summer, we danced to the same CD over and over again. Not sure why it was that one, but that’s how the cookie crumbled, and it was on constant repeat during those endless rehearsals. Each song a painful reminder that I was not good enough (yet), that he still saw me in a completely wrong light, that I was walking a tightrope, my heart in my throat. Or on my sleeve. Perhaps it’s a good thing men are oblivious to certain things…

Color Tango Orchestra – the soundtrack to my summer of 2008. Negracha, Mala Junta, Gallo Ciego, Para Dos…classics, all, and so many more that would be mindless noise in the background while he coached me on boleos that would not “whip around” or sinking my hips or countless other notes that were meant to make me a better dancer. Or the CD would be on full volume and we would tango, or rather I would try desperately hard to follow and fail equally miserably.

He gave me all of the CDs later on and during that summer I listened to tango even when I was not dancing. Practicing at home, scratching the gleaming wood floors, and promising to myself through gritted teeth that I would get him out of my head if it killed me AND that I’ll also become an amazing tango dancer into the bargain. Hmmm, well, we can assume that the latter wish is proceeding rather nicely, as for the former, I should be so lucky.

Not too long ago, he asked me to bring over a CD of tango to the practice space. While digging around iTunes and my now (rather vast) tango library, I picked songs that I knew I would always associate with those days, that beginning, which I was so certain was really the end.

I trooped over to the studio with a copy of Color Tango. We started to dance and I immediately remembered last May. Same movements, same partner, same studio, same month, even. Only now I was dancing, really dancing. Now I was no longer sleepwalking through life.

Last night as we were walking to the train station, he asked me if I’d ever seen Eyes Wide Shut. The question came completely out of the blue and I am surprised that I’d managed to keep walking. An innocent question, sure, only I’ve never been the one to believe in coincidences. I don’t remember my reply, something along the lines of me not thinking that it was Kubrick’s best (it isn’t!) and going off on tangent about specific things in the movie that I didn’t like.

I remember my wistful thought when I had just started writing this blog that he find it, read it, and understand it, understand me. That was before I realized that actually opening my mouth and talking to him, really talking, was the best way to get anywhere. Hiding behind anonymously written words and hoping that he would realize it’s my voice and my dreams, and coincidentally, save me from having to tell him all of this face to face. Sometimes my naïveté amazes even yours truly.

Be careful what you wish for? Did he really find it? Or was that question a perfect coincidence?

“Hello. I am Mademoiselle. It’s nice to…errr…meet you?”