Foreign

There are visitors at the milonga.  Strangers from a strange land, or maybe just strangers from one town down the road.  You might not notice them at first, but they take a few steps on the dance floor and all eyes are on them.  They must know they're the centre of attention, but they look cool and calm and take their time.

All the leaders in the room want to dance with her, because she closes her eyes and half-smiles and walks as though the world will make way for her.

All the followers in the room want to dance with him because he makes way for the world.  He pauses, as whirling dervishes scythe past.  He keeps her from the flicks and kicks and waist-high stilettos.

We wish we could tell them that, no, we're not all knuckleheads here.  But they will make their own judgement.

We hope they'll come back.

We think we need them.