One Last Tango With My Lover, Our Final Dance

I was already enthralled with tango dancing before we met. I might have been a reincarnation of Helen Gavito, who, with her husband and partner Carlos, at some point defined tango in Buenos Aires, that's how much I was into tango when Norman came along.

He was my Nor-man, or Nor-mick, as I called him because I'm Russian, and Nor-mick is how you would turn a formal name into a nickname if you are a Russian girl. Or, sometimes, I would call him Kotik, which is the Russian word for kitten and you would only call a guy like that if you're crazy about him.

That night, when we met for the first time, I was sitting at now-defunct Cafe Apollo on Miami Beach where musicians gather to play tango music late at night. I had heard people talk about this place for years, so I had to check it out.

The reflection of bright neon lights created a dreamlike ambiance -- I felt fine, happy. I'm an artist, so I love anything that has a surrealist feel to it.

I came to Apollo's alone, as any sane single woman should do when she is lonely. I saw him before he saw me. He was sitting by himself at the bar that ran along the side of the cafe.

When he turned his head slightly to the left, the light played with his gray hair giving it a sliver hue; his face was both soft and firm, exactly as I like it. He noticed how I was interested in him and he didn't look away.

I could feel the beginning of a smile on my face as he got up and went straight to me with a firm stride that said, "I always get what I want," and I liked it.

"Norman," he introduced himself as he approached and sat next to me. He was a former Wallstreeter, I have learned, who had recently retired and moved to South Beach. His eyes were blue and had that sparkle of wisdom and mischief that I like in a man.

He asked me if he could buy my next drink, and we got to talking. We bonded instantly over tango music, tango friends, and "tangoidas" (women who go to milongas just so they can dance with their partners to show off), and we laughed together in no time.

Then, with a nod toward the dance floor, he held out his hand and led me to where we were supposed to be -- right in the center.

Norman knew how to lead. At his 54, he had been around tango for 30 years now -- from Buenos Aires to New York to South Beach -- and he showed me what it means to dance as if no one is watching.

I closed my eyes and let him lead, pretending that we were the only people in the place so I could imagine myself as the woman who has everything.

Twice, we had to cease dancing because other couples had to pass by us in order to get on the packed floor; nevertheless, no ill feelings -- that's all part of the game.

I could tell from the firm grip of his hands, he had a plan. It was also evident from the way he spun me about; I knew exactly what he was thinking about and I like that.

My dress, which I bought new for that night, was a crimson sheath with just enough cleavage showing that still managed to say 'classy.' His black tuxedo trousers with suspenders over his white t-shirt showed off his manly physique, and I was falling for him like a schoolgirl, and I was far from all schools at my age of 38.

His dancing style reminded me of the time I once studied tango in Buenos Aires. The way he held his head, his shoulders; even the way he crossed and uncrossed his legs was eloquently Argentine -- masculine and elegant at the same time. He had that je ne sais quoi (i don't know what) that many tangueros try to emulate but never quite get right.

It wasn't his looks that entranced me, no. I had been in plenty of situations before when a man was very attractive and yet couldn't hold my interest.

Maybe, it was his demeanor and that glint in his eye--a combination of power, confidence, and care that I found irresistible.

His hand on my naked back sent waves of delight through my body. I felt his warm breath on my neck. I smelled his spicy cologne and couldn't get enough of it.

His fingers - soft, insistent -pressed into my sides and pulled my hips closer to him. I could feel my face getting hotter. The music picked up speed. The drums, the bass guitar, and the synthesizer all seemed to be competing with each other.

We danced a sultry tango, even erotic, without making anything explicit or crude, it just felt exhilarating as we moved our bodies gracefully in perfect unison. My heart skipped a beat when we went into a lower dip, a kick, a dip again, and came back face-to-face up closer again.

His hand slid lower, fingers splayed across my left side, squeezing it firmly. I moved away from him, but he wrapped his arm around my waist and forced me back to his chest, there... I enhaled deeply and.. the music stopped.

For a few seconds, we remained still, my left hand -- in his right. His large eyes, I noticed, were cobalt blue. What color were my eyes? I imagined they must be sparkling with fireworks.

That night, he never left my side. We departed clasping our hands and arrived at his South Beach condo on Ocean Drive at midnight. Neither of us asked any questions. Everything we wanted to say to each other was already said.

After that night, we DANCED everywhere!

We danced on his enormous bed, and every single pillow would fall off. We nearly tumbled ourselves because we laughed so hard.

We twirled on the sidewalks, holding one another as we raced past gazing pedestrians who occasionally clapped and always smiled.

We glided across the floor of his living room, and on the wall behind us was a magnificent painting of two brilliant Scarlet Macaws in the tropics by his Brazilian artist-friend. And it looked as if these two birds were watching us dance and nodding their enormous beaks in approval. It always cracked me up.

. . .

December 13th. That's when everything stopped, at the same Apollo's where we first met... We danced and, when he stumbled, he still held my hand. I shrieked as he toppled right in front of me. The music cut off. People rushed over. They tried doing CPR on him but were unable to because it was useless. He was gone. I was hysterical.

All else is a blur. The strangers' long faces. The eerie green light of the ER. The doctor's downcast mouth corners as he informs me that they did everything possible. Yes, they certainly did.

Now, every time I close my eyes, I see his lifeless body lying on that white gurney. The wide blue eyes, still opened, the strangely deep eye sockets, the graceful grin froze like on a marble Greek sculpture.

I've never told him, "I love you." We didn't talk this way. His body was already cold by the time I got to see him for one last time, just before they rolled him away.

My black dress. Red roses on his freshly dug grave. I wish there was a pill to erase that memory.

. . .

Ten years have passed since he died. I still remember his scent, that potent memory of his cologne brings me to the brink of orgasm even now.

Last night I had a dream as if it were an art movie. The dark velvet curtains of the night unfolded and I saw the two of us dancing up in the sky. The sprinkled city lights - far below us. He dipped me backward then swung me back upright. My red dress twirled up around and above my head. My heart pounded. He whispered something in my ear, smiling, I couldn't hear it. "WHAT? WHAT?" I screamed, and that's where I woke up drenched in sweat.

My heart raced. I got up from my bed and opened a bottle of red wine.

"Goodnight, Normick... Sweet Dream," I whispered to myself as I took a large gulp from the wine bottle and cuddled with my pillow.

Dear Readers, thank you for reading! I write mostly about love. Feel free to share my stories with your loved ones. Special Thanks to Pam Mayer — my tireless friend, editor, and collaborator.