Bio: Beate Sigriddaughter, www.sigriddaughter.net , lives in Silver City, New Mexico, where she was poet laureate from 2017 - 2019. Unsolicited Press published her poetry collection Emily in 2020. She posts other women's work on her blog Writing In A Woman's Voice.
Mark was the breadwinner, an attorney.
Martina was the dancer. It suited them well. He had great stage presence in
front of the jury, blond, handsome, suave. She twirled in the kitchen, on the
living room parquet floor; she danced with their two children, Haley and Tim,
and sent them to ballet school. Both children liked it and she was pleased.
Martina was lovely but also strict with the children and she kept a wonderful
house. From time to time she regretted that she didn't get as much spotlight in
life as she would have liked. Mark kept his thick blond hair way into his
forties, with a longish lock over his forehead that he had actually practiced
tossing in front of the bathroom mirror for alluring effect. Martina kept her
slender figure, despite the gourmet meals she cooked. The children were proud
of their mom because she was graceful and smart. They were proud of both their
parents, really. Mark was the easier parent, cuddly and permissive when he was
not annihilating his opponents in front of a riveted jury. At home Martina was
the bossy one, though, so it seemed to count more when the children were able
to impress her.
The one thing missing from Martina's life
was dancing, real dancing, not just cavorting with the children. Mark claimed
he was simply too clumsy and couldn't understand rhythm. From time to time they
swayed on the local dance floor to slow music in close embrace. It wasn't very
satisfying. In her family there had always been a lot of dancing and they all
danced well. Ricardo, Pablo, Fernando. Sometimes they danced with her in a
club, but dancing with her own brothers wasn't exactly satisfying either.
Besides, more often than not they were dancing with their own wives.
As defense attorney, Mark
occasionally had trouble collecting fees and ended up doing pro bono work. It wasn't that big a
deal. He still made a more than comfortable living for all of them. One time,
defending a young woman successfully on a spurious assault charge, she
tearfully declared she had no money left to pay the remainder of her fee when
the victorious verdict came in. Her sister, in attendance for the celebration,
had no money either, but she ran a dance studio and offered to give Mark and
Martina dance lessons to work off what her sister still owed.
"No, it's not our thing," Mark
said. But then he saw Martina's eyes, filled with longing. "Actually,
maybe we could try," he said.
Martina's face glowed with pleasure.
They signed up for a sampler series of
ballroom dances. In class he was clumsy at first, as he had expected all along.
Waltz wasn't for him. Rumba was a little better. Merengue was easy, but it
didn't inspire him. And then tango happened. It was his dance. He could be
flamboyant. He could be dramatic. He could be masterful. Martina was ecstatic.
This was how it should have been all along.
The
teacher complimented him. Their fellow students adored him. He was in his
element. He was willing to dance this dance for the rest of his life. Maybe go
to tango conventions. There seemed to be so many all over the country. Maybe go
study in Argentina. Why not? Or Europe. Paris, he learned, had been a hotbed
for expatriate tangueros in the early
days.
Soon
when it came to lady's choice, he was swarmed by eager partners. Soon Martina
was sitting out dance after dance while he was being courted and clearly
enjoying himself.
For Valentine's Day he bought the family
tickets to Buenos Aires for next summer's vacation. He told the children but
asked them to keep it a secret from their mother until the day came. All three
of them were excited.
Meanwhile
he wanted to take some private lessons. During their first private lesson he
noticed that Martina was quiet, irritated, it seemed. Must have had a bad day.
He'd ask her about it later. The teacher kept praising him, though, and it
warmed his heart. How far he had come, finally granting Martina's wish to have
a dancer of her own in her life.
Martina hedged about scheduling their
next lesson. She had too many other appointments the following week, and apparently
the week after as well. They finally left it that they would call.
He knew something was wrong but couldn't figure
out what it was.
"You've been
quiet," he said. "What's wrong?"
"I just think we are
getting a bit too old to dance," she said.
He wanted to protest. But
suddenly he understood. She was the dancer. He changed the tickets. The family
went to Athens that summer, one of the cradles of Western civilization. The
children never said a word about the change of venue.
Sometimes what we think we want we don't want after all. Love the parallels in this, Beate, and the neat clean ending took my breath! Brilliant.
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