As I drove down the long freeway to work today, I rediscovered a song I had not heard in a while. A lovely milonguera with a smooth rhythmic guitar overlapped by a slow, saucy bandoneon. I listened as I watched a flock of geese ascend to higher currents in silent unison with the sun slowly rising in the background.
I suddenly ached for the unspoken world of the milonga. A place where communication is the press of a shoulder or the brush of a thigh. A world of long black dresses and slender heels with suede soles. Of melodies dripping across thickly waxed floors. The harmony of dozens of bodies weaving in circular patterns in paired unison.
I long for that simplicity… for the ability to flow from one path to another with instinctive motion. I pretend my living room floor is slick and smooth and slip on my dusty shoes.? I breathe in their leathery smell and do voleos and pulpos guided only by the furniture.? But communication is unfulfilling when it is one-sided.?
As the song fades, I take off the shoes and return them to their sacred isolation to be forgotten once more.