Tango

Yesterday was one of those days when things just seemed to be on the verge of falling apart. I held myself up to scrutiny and didn't like what I saw. Last night I slept fitfully and woke up feeling dismal and frustrated on a chilly and grey morning. Sheltering behind an old wooden groyne, I pulled my coat tightly around me and sat listening to whatever my ipod shuffled for me. After a couple of songs, an Argentinian tango tune played and -immediately - I was transported back - slimmer and wild eyed - sitting in a uni bar when she walked in, stood behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.

I looked up and turned to see a stranger beaming down at me. She was lithe and her pleasant face held what seemed to be a permanently amused expression. Without introduction, she said that she was on her way to a party and did I want to go with her? It seemed a great way to spend what had promised to be a dull evening and we walked together through late sunshine as I learned firstly her name and then that everyone would be speaking Italian. I had no Italian but I had some Latin; I was sure I'd get by.

We were happily drunk when she started to teach me how to tango.

Over the next few days we scratched the surface of each other's lives. She had been a ballet dancer and I remarked that she must be very flexible. She grinned and said that she'd show me; she did.

But summer saw us heading in very different directions. The last I heard from her was a post card from Pisa where, if I wished, her cool room awaited me. I was a penniless musician and a couple of years short of the courage that would have taken me on that adventure without a moment's thought.

I sat and smiled at the memories, silently hoped that she has had a good life, then stood up and faced a difficult day, my syncopated steps remembering the dance she had taught me.