Tango & Die (Draft 1)

The community week celebration was only a month away. The highlight of this year’s celebration was the grand ball, the event that held the most promise of netting classy chicks. Hopefully this time I wouldn’t remind anyone that she had to feed her cat; that’s what I told myself. I’m referring to the unforgettable episode with Mona – our local version of Catherine Zeta-Jones. Talk about class and distinction; she had them all and more. This significant historical event I am referring to occurred just over a year ago during the community month celebration. The closest I had been to her was when I squeezed in behind her and press my cheek against hers under the pretext of there not being enough space, during the group picture. I pepped myself up with some dumb inspirational quote I read from Readers’ Digest, faint heart never won fair lady. As to whether it was prudent is open to debate.

I had to find a way to talk to her. In my dreams our short conference had gone very smoothly right after the necessary how-are-yous and the I-am-fines, with a lot of giggles and dainty shoulder slaps. I chose to believe my daydreams were portentous of good things to happen. Do you blame me then when in my infinite wisdom decided that dragging her unto the dance floor was my best chance of breaking the ice? Yeah, yeah.. I know what you’re thinking. Avoiding the dance floor like a pestilence is my first and foremost principle of social life, and yet under absolutely no coercion whatsoever except for the pitiful urging of my weak heart in response to my hopeless desire for Mona’s company and audience, I breached my principles. My hopes were not completely unfounded though. Fitz had been kind enough to acquaint me with some of what he referred to as dance floor attention grabbers. He effectively, and must I add, ruthlessly, with devious assistance from the other brood of vipers I foolishly called friends, baptized me with a cascade of flattering compliments, enough to lift the spirits of even the most down-trodden loser. I bought into the sham and held on to his advise fervently like a new widow to religion.

Ok. Now fast forward. After approximately forty-two seconds in to the music, with a reluctant Mona having yielded to my persistent requests to grace me with her company on the highly polished marble floor, the first, shall we say, accident, occurred? I made contact with Mona’s shin with the tip of my Italian leather shoes as a result of a slight frictional disagreement between the soles of my shoes and the slippery floor. The incident was gracefully ignored with a throat clearing and a pursed lip. That was not my reaction but hers. Mine was to gulp and commence uncontrollable perspiration that would render my antiperspirant deodorant completely useless. You would think that was enough for one night, but no. I doubled the effect by slapping her chest, inadvertently – mind you, with the back of my hand. That was about two minutes later. And of course there’s only so much abuse a dame can endure on the dance floor for one night from a goofy nincompoop (from what I heard from the grapevine, that was how she later referred to me while recounting the episode to her bevy of Jezebel friends, of which she was the head). The response was therefore swift, but elegant though. She didn’t hesitate, by God, no, not this time! She leaned forward, in what looked like a promising gesture that normally seals off a successful date; but no, I didn’t entertain any ridiculous ideas. I knew I hadn’t done anything to deserve her giving my lips a wet treat, definitely not! She was just in the process of informing me that she had to go offer some nourishment to her apparently famished feline pet. “Oh you have to go?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, I have to go feed my cat,” she replied, and with a straight face too, ”I just remembered.”

Now, what do you say if moments after making foul contact with a damsel, she acquaints you with details of her ravenous feline companion, and the fact that she had to make a hasty exit in order to administer nourishment? Even a goofy nincompoop like myself was endowed with clear unblemished understanding, like Einstein on the theory of relativity. I therefore removed myself from her path and watched her squeeze and weave through the thick congregation of sweaty bodies jumping to the beat of Cher’s Believe. She was gone. The only trace of her left for me was the oily residue from her lip-gloss that got deposited on my ear lobe when she leaned over to whisper her excuse to ditch me.

Unless her cat is human, I can never understand why I saw her feeding Loquacious Joe grapes in the pantry later that night!

This year, my target was Maya, the new Med school show-stopper. How best do I describe her? Imagine the class of Audrey Hepburn injected into the body of Beyonc¬é Knowles festooned with the eyes of Nicole Kidman and the bosom of Pamela Anderson. Need I go any further? Mind you I’m a gentleman, and a reserved one at that, and have often eschewed indulging in the exercise of detailing the contours of a female. But I beg your indulgence; allow me to breach my gentleman-principles this once. You see she’s the reason for the sudden mass exodus of engineering students from their labs to the Med-school library, which has recently become a cause of wonder and concern for the medical students. She knows that and thus endeavors to treat the boys to her splendor – she dressed sparingly, if you catch my drift.

Nothing says God has answered your prayers better than meeting two Tangueros – Argentinean Tango Maestros- who are willing to offer lessons for a reasonable fee. Senor Martini y Senorita Maria-Carina, that’s how they’re referred to as. I made it my short-term resolution to keep it from the other guys. The thought of them raising their eyebrows in utter bewilderment when they saw me treating the dance floor as my domain thrilled me immensely. Call it selfishness, if you will. But I call it “payback.” I could scarcely suppress fantasizing about Maya’s body and mine tightly clamped in a graceful embrace while we twirled around the floor. But before that could happen, there was a lot of work to be done. I needed rhythm. I spent the next few days shopping for dancing shoes. I acquired for myself a snazzy pair of “Killick Classic Latin.”