tango

It's not a serious ballet. It was done for money - a racket the company needed from a bunch of rich doctors for a health convention. In it is a stylized tango where a bunch of couples were to be creatures of the night, socializing, drinking, smoking, doing many unhealthy things.

Casting. Blue is pushed towards me, as if there was no other person he or I should be dancing with. Ha.

The tango is a dangerous affair. Argentinians dance the tango like combatting lovers, pushing each other, drawing back, laying all their cards on the table. This is the only serious section, the only aesthetic section of the entire ballet.

I am angry at Blue. I shouldn't be angry at Blue, he is not mine to be angry at. And yet, each time he smiles at Mitzi, or squeezes Tasha on the arm, or flirts back at Tara, I seethe. But I do not let the seething show. I just turn away, roll my eyes.

Rehearsal. A dangerous lift. Boy picks girl up from her arabesque, holding her around the waist and around her lifted leg. He flips her over as girl folds the supporting leg so as not to kick boy in the face. Boy turns girl around and brings her to a precariously dangerous pose, the kind that is not suitable for public consumption. Everyone else either gets tangled up in the flip, slipping down in the turn or strangely unable to do the end pose without giggling. Blue and I accomplish the lift in one seamless movement, in one try. We are always this good together. We are applauded by the Director. We are smirked at by our co-dancers, "Ginagawa niyo yan pag kayong dalawa lang, no?"

He knows I'm mad at him, but he doesn't bite. All these other girls are flirting with him, he's better off without my attentions anyway. He'd rather wait for me to give in. Pigs will fly when I do.

Rehearsal. The couples break off into groups doing different choreography. Our group practices a lift down to an arabesque going into a split; he is unnerved that he can't seem to set me down properly from the shoulder lift. He is more unnerved because when Sydney and I do the exact same lift in another dance, like we rehearsed that same afternoon, the execution is perfect. He will not let Sydney be the better man, he is proprietous this way. But we're working with a group and I am more concerned with the other people we're dancing with. So I brush off his wanting to practice the lift and say "Sa split na tayo."

He cocks his head at me. "Split na tayo?" Everyone laughs. I ignore him and go into the split.

Backstage. Sydney fixes the folds of my dress as I complain about how misshapen it is. Blue peers at us but when I pointedly look at him, he looks away and has his arms around Mitzi. I don't care. Then I look at Sydney and realize he had been talking and I hadn't heard a thing he said.

The Argentinians dance the tango to confront their cheating lovers of the agony that they give them. They dance the tango to display how much fire burns in their bodies for their love, which their lover is thoughtlessly tossing away. The lover replies with as much fire, to prove that their love is just as true, if a bit misplaced sometimes. But such is real passion. Those Argentinians have too much fire in their bellies, I think.

The opening pose. My right leg is resting on his left shoulder as we clasp each other for support, his left arm embracing my thigh so tightly. The lights slowly flood in and his face is mere inches from mine, he is looking straight at me, whereas the choreography has never indicated where exactly we should be looking. His eyes are strong and unfazed on mine, his smile a slight damning. I match this gaze. You are so on.

Performance. There are no mirrors, no audience. There is just him and me. We move on muscle memory and let the steps flow, hardly breaking eye contact unless I pull away from him, as required. He pulls me back sharply, as required, and our eyes lock once more. I lunge, he grabs me back toward him, I wrap my leg around his waist and bend all the way back, he retrieves me and presses me close to him. I swing my leg around and turn so that my back is to him and slowly lunge down again, his wide-splayed hands on my thighs slide up my hips, my waist, my ribs, my torso, my arms, until he's holding my hands. He turns me around to pull me up again, I help him by launching into an attitude. We hold this pose as it is the last of this section before we slowly walk into our groups. Our lengths are pressing full against each other once more and our eyes are again locked into each other. In them, a fire is burning.

The dressing room. We're taking our make-up off and the girls are complaining about their partners, for whatever reason. They didn't do this lift, it hurt when they held them there, they were off balance here, etc. I realize none of that transpired with Blue. Perhaps, there wasn't time to think about anything we were doing wrong.

Some of the boys knock on the door to get their valuables from our costume mistress. Blue was one of them. On his way out, he ignores all the other girls and goes out of his way to pass me. "Sa uulitin," he says, cocking his head at me.

I roll my eyes. But my thighs, hips, waist, ribs, torso, arms are all tingling from a recent fire that was blazing.