The milonga has to begin at some point. It begins now. Some people have arrived already. They change their shoes. They pour water into glasses. They eat a grape or a crisp or a biscuit, whatever happens to be set out on each table. They are itching to dance, but the floor is empty. Who will take the first step? Who will make themselves visible first? Knowing that there's no way they'll be dancing their best after an hour in the car, or a walk through the rain and the cold, or an argument about the fact that they'd forgotten to feed the cat before setting off.
Whoever does it, is temporarily a performer. They don't want to be. But they'll be watched by others, wondering whether it's safe, yet, to come into the water.
It's difficult: dancing without other people to shape your dance, to give you boundaries, to make the pace.
But they manage. And soon dancers will fill the floor. The crowd will fill the room.
And there is the solitude: gone.
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