Maria’s heartbeat quickened as she climbed the stairs, the marble dented from the steps of dancers over hundreds of years about to make their entrance, the same as her.
Through the red velvet curtains, one side of the host’s mouth curls in welcome, and he kisses her on the cheek. She follows him to her table at the front row, squeezing between the chairs, half filled with older women fanning themselves, their clothing a little too tight, a little too low cut.
She tucks her legs and her bag under the linen tablecloth, as the DJ plays a cortina of rock and roll. Two women join Maria at her table, glowing from their dance. They nod to her, as one sips her wine, the other scans the rows of men on the other side of the room.
As the sudden quick violin syncopations announce a D’Arienzo tanda, she looks across the empty wooden floor, meeting the dark gaze of a dancer she knows to have great rhythm. He lifts his eyebrows in invitation, she nods upwards, once.
He stands up, straightens his jacket and walks across the floor to her table, extending a hand to her. Maria takes his hand, stands, and silently steps into his embrace.
Sarah Bonnar 