I've been meeting my gal pals at the Centro de Convenciones. We share a table and take turns buying each other soft drinks, raising our eyebrows about our partners, and fanning the hot air around.
To recap, I´ve danced with some pretty competent salseros. Then there are the memorable ones, who seem to crawl out of the walls when the dance hall lights are dim:
The little guy, exactly my height, who breathes heavily into my face and sends his breath up my nose, who stares nonstop and soulfully into my eyes, and who leers in a way that makes me fear his canines are about to grow, sharpen, and sink into my necky flesh.
The man with a small head and a shirt opened to reveal a thick, unwelcome mat of curly hair that hits me at face level and reminds me of an overgrown roll of sod or a misplaced toupé. This fellow has traveling hands which I am constantly moving off my derrière. I have no idea what he's mumbling into my hair: "My name is Fernando?" "Do you mind if I feel your bum one more time?" "Are you still breathing, or have I succeeded in suffocating you in my manly chest hairs?"
The nonmover and shaker. He stands practically in place, as he whips me around. Unaware of space, he swings me into the people nearby, causing me to get stilletoed by a well-heeled female and to rump-bump an innocent bystander. At one point, purely by accident and in self defense, I smack him in the head with a hand I flailed to pull back in time.
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