Read this and lear the style "The morning light filters gently into the expansive apartment, rays from the winter sun unfurling through the surrounding glass windows. I keep my eyes closed, not yet ready to part with this stillness, to cherish the calm, the way my body languishes, intertwined with hers. I linger in the sensation of Tina’s leg bent and draped over mine, her hand tracing the contour of my body, her fingers languid and sated upon my hip, her warm breath nestled in the crook of my neck, her hair tickling my shoulder with the faintest sensation. I revel in the weight of our bodies, the carpet, our makeshift bed on the floor a mere attempt to ease the hardness beneath us, the throw blanket haphazardly unfurled over us—not for modesty’s sake, but born out of a need to stay wrapped in each other.

I pause and ponder the cool numbness in the arm that holds Tina; I can feel the length of her spine with the slightest motion of my fingertips and a shiver travels through me. With the rediscovery of her proximity, there’s an intoxicating novelty, I feel like I’m touching her for the first time *How many inches of you remain undiscovered?* I muse, my mind adrift in the sea of Tina’s yet uncharted skin.

As awareness seeps back into my body, I slowly open my eyes to the light-drenched room. The fireplace still flickers across from our entwined figures. I shift my head, feeling the rest of my body awaken—a pleasantly heavy aliveness. I glance obliquely at the  windows, guessing it must be around 7 a.m. by now. My gaze alights on the smeared handprints Tina left on the glass, and the memory of that moment sends a flame of arousal licking through me.

Turning to face Tina, who slumbers on me, I press a tender kiss to her forehead, allowing my lips to rest there, feeling her skin and locking out the world a while longer.

The mere presence of Tina and the memories from last night leave me with an intimate warmth on my bare skin. People say that dreams are usually in black and white, thus this cannot have been a dream; every moment, sensation, scent, and caress bursts with color and aroma. The images of Tina, surrendered to me, are clear and vivid.

I grow bold, my fingers firmer, charting an intrepid course along her back as I stretch with my other hand to retrieve a pillow slipped to the floor during the night’s fervor. I then slip my arm from beneath her neck, guiding her head gently onto the soft cushion.

“Don’t go away…” she murmurs, barely a whisper, eyes still closed but breath quickening as she pulls me closer, aligning our bodies subconsciously. I melt into her embrace, savouring these waning moments fully. We turn to our sides, now facing each other.

“I’m here,” I reply, watching her unaware that once more the sun will dictate our rhythms. I watch her and feel, in her seeking hands, that there are no more barriers to break, her light fingers imploring me to tear down mine without speaking. I gaze at her delicate face, her red hair splayed across the pillow, and brush it absentmindedly with my fingers. My touch becomes firmer, encircling her nape. At first, I notice only a slight tilt of her neck seeking more contact and a soft grunt, so I caress her more firmly until her stunning hazel eyes snap open and they look at me, a silent plea, leaving her words caught in her throat. With resolve, I kiss her, having waited far too long to do so, and the sensation is that of both our first and our hundredth kiss all at once *If only I could explain what it means to kiss you… If only you knew how you feel like the first time, every time.*

When Tina looks back into my eyes, I feel pinned, dissected, and seen: for the first time, I fear the desire I feel. I can barely breathe as my hands roam her hair, Tina is warm, and her scent is that of a comforting seduction, the same aroma interlaced between us and the blanket that covers us. Her lips part, and in a flash, I acquiesce, surrendering softly to her mouth, to the flicker of her tongue. Tina moans in my mouth and my hand caresses her face, cupping her jaw, coaxing her lips to open wider, and slowly I slide upon her while our mouths entwine with rekindled and awakened hunger and desire.

Then Tina drops her head back, surrendering her neck to me, hands carving trails on my back as my mouth paints her skin as though a blank canvas.

“This is so good, you’re so good Baby…” Her voice, rough and wakeful, jolts me from my reverie. There it is again, that pet name, unexpected and now resounding with an obscene yet genuine tenderness. And it’s overwhelming, and while my tongue savors her silky skin, I approach her nipples that tighten in response to my attentions and Tina begins to pant.

I smile, realign with her body, and roll my hips between her legs; we both groan at the sensation. Taking Tina’s hands, I guide them to my breasts. We sigh in unison, Tina’s touch instinctively teases my nipples, leaving me breathless. Looking straight into her eyes, I start moving cautiously, kissing her neck, her jaw. Then I draw back slightly and behold her. Tina holds my gaze, her thumbs teasing my nipples gently as she focuses on the sensation between her legs, the intimate contact of our sexes. We begin tentatively, but soon find our rhythm, and the heat dissolving in Tina’s pelvis prompts her to increase the speed and pressure against me. I find a spot that makes Tina shudder, overwhelmed by the tight intensity of it, her sex grinding against mine. Tina instinctively lifts a leg, I grab her knee and wrap her leg around my waist.

This pulls us even closer, and Tina moans, “Oh, God,” and moments later, between quick breaths, she whispers, “If only I could make you feel *how* and *what* you make me feel…”

And though I’ve had few loves and lots of lovers, none have aroused and stirred me with words quite like Tina does. Perhaps it’s her tone, her voice, her hands touching as if they’ve known me for a lifetime; maybe, it’s the way she speaks while looking into my eyes and truly seeing me— creating a connection between us, but in some way, her words convey to me the eroticism of knowing that she desires to please me, and it's as exciting as the act itself that we are engaged in.

As my sex brushes against hers, each light contact causes her to nod, moan anew, and I smile at her. I seize her hands and guide them to slide on the floor above our heads, our mouths voracious, and then a new first time happens. Tina slows, somehow withdraws from me, and our faces are now distant enough to allow us to look directly into each other’s eyes, and then she smiles at me.

My hands are heavy on hers, Tina looks at me, steals an almost innocent kiss “I think you lied about your age—let me tell you, you *feel to me* half your years” she says and bursts into laughter not loudly but with pure, comfortable amusement, once again drawing her pelvis as close as she can to mine.

And it is during this interlude, in a moment so intimate that only the closest of lovers indulge, that we burst into laughter together. Not that we had never laughed with each other, but there had always been a veil of uncertainty between us, of the unknown. Yet now, there are just the two of us, bare and making love, and it’s the warmest, most enveloping feeling in the world. We take our time—I watch her laugh, observing the dimples on her chin, the faint crinkles by her eyes that squint shut with mirth, her cheeks lifting and her eyes sparkling with glee. I lean into her, my lips meeting hers, grazing them gently and feeling her move against me—more intense, so intense that has both of us gasping. As our bodies move, almost beyond our control, damp with desire, I gaze at her with fiery eyes and whisper on her lips, “But guess what—I have all my years but… they’re all just a wealth of experience,” and Tina doesn’t miss a beat. She lifts her head from the pillow and captures my lips with urgency, her tongue licking mine, pressing with hunger and deliberateness. And we resume our dance, our bodies finding an incessant, unique rhythm, modulating the pace from swift to slow, sensual.

Tina frees her hands from mine and allows them to glide across my chest, up to my neck and face. She grips my jaw and draws it down towards her. Then she turns my face, her mouth grazing my ear, “And I want all your experience.”

It’s as if a switch has been flipped within me, I lean forward, capturing her mouth in a desperate kiss. I seize her thigh, unwrapping it from around my waist, aligning it to her torso, and in this new contortion, we kiss and devour each other, savage and voracious, increasingly desperate in our search for an elusive closeness, a merger. And I can’t resist wanting more from her than what I’m taking, so I slip two fingers inside her and whisper breathlessly into the receiving shell of her ear, “Oh Tina, You were just waiting for me.”

The sudden penetration makes her convulse, muscles clenching around my probing fingers as they drive forward into her, her liquid heat allowing me to enter unresisted as our mouths remain relentless, Tina groans, and I swallow her sounds. 

And I feel her—There’s a building current beneath our entwined forms, and I am its conductor, bringing her closer to the precipice with each sweep, each circle, each stroke. My forehead rests on her chin as my fingers and body move over her, against her, and within her. I know her orgasm is winding its way to climax when Tina makes a high, muted sound in her throat. But as our lips again slip awkwardly over each other, seemingly uncontrollable, I begin to feel my fingers embraced by her throbbing grasp. And I slow everything down.

“Tina, look at me” I say as I stop my fingers inside of her, my body pausing between her legs, “Tina, look at me” I repeat, my voice a whisper-thin command amidst the thunder of our desires until her eyes lock onto mine. “Don’t come” I implore her, my voice is sharp and breathless, “I don’t want you to come.”

I see her eyes widen in surprise, she looks at me seeking the unsaid words hanging in the ether between us, her heart slows its desperate cadence, her chest slowly calming, her throat swallowing with difficulty, uneasy yet poignant. 

Whatever comes next, I understand that this orgasm I’m denying her isn’t just a physical release; in fact there’s nothing purely anatomical about what we’re sharing, it transcends the flesh. It symbolizes a world of possibilities—mornings waking up together, kisses both stolen and given—and if I don’t let it go, maybe I can cling to this world of possibilities. I indulge in the illusion that I can keep Tina close to me by denying the shudder of her body. And I hope foolishly that just as desire once brought us back here, so too it might bind us together again, despite the high sun in a surreal blue January sky, despite my life waiting outside. And Tina doesn’t ask for anything. She looks at me, then kisses me. Slow, sensual, and sweet—accepting this way our last moments of intimacy together.

Shortly after Tina disappears into the shower, I begin to dress myself anew, slipping into my intimate attire and gathering the strewn clothes from the floor, tidying up the disorder our passion left in its wake. As I rearrange the blanket and cushion on the couch, my phone’s ringing slices through the quiet. My heart leaps to my throat while my eyes return to my purse perched on the kitchen counter. Approaching, I delve into the bag searching for the device. With a sigh that feels like it could break my back or puncture my lungs, I see the name on the screen, briskly drawing me back across New York.

I answer and don't even have time to think—on the other end, the tone is cold, the voice agitated, the question direct. “Where are you, Bette?” she asks.

I yearn to tell her the truth, to confess there’s someone in my life who’s enraptured me, taken my hand while making love and might wish to hold it still as we navigate our paths and as I rediscover myself. I ache to reveal that Tina could be the one with whom I could bear life growing small or perpetually the same, as we still find awe in a snowflake or a sunset against an immutable horizon. But I don’t. Something holds me back—the realization that Tina has been here for one day, while my wife has shared my life for years. And so, within my old kitchen, I decide to allow myself more time to understand, to comprehend us more.

“At the office,” I tell her, I lie. Resting my elbows on the counter, I bring my hand to massage my forehead, closing my eyes and resigning myself to be covered in more lies.

“And last night? You missed dinner and didn’t sleep at home." Her questions are unrelenting. *Think fast.* I rub my back, feeling it crack slightly in multiple places after the night on the floor *Damn, I feel all my years right now,* and as I contemplate this, I’m unaware of hazel eyes observing my every move. “Late Japanese auction. We stayed at the office. I was home briefly before they called me back in. I didn’t have a chance to notify you.” I let a few seconds pass, then my voice dons a disarming sincerity, “Forgive me.”

“We’ll talk about it later, Bette, I have to go now,” she says, and in her voice, I detect a novel fracture—as if, for the first time, she couldn’t take me for granted. A sliver of uncertainty.

My mind whirls, and I almost forget that Tina is still here. I ponder how I allowed my life to spectacularly unravel. “I see you at home tonight," I say to my wife before ending the call.

I spend a few seconds staring at the black screen, then massage the bridge of my nose between my eyes, tilting my head for some brief neck stretches. When I turn towards the hallway leading to the bedrooms, I see Tina, wrapped in the house’s only towel, leaning against the wall, watching me. And I watch her back—not controlling my eyes as they take in her damp legs accentuated by the towel’s brevity, her bare feet leaving wet impressions, the lotus flower tattoo adding a hue of color to the skin of her foot. I look at her and imagine her stepping into my shower just after adjusting the water temperature. I imagine her indulging and relaxing under the cascading droplets over her face, then flowing along her body.

“Bette?” Tina’s voice makes me startle, jolting me back into the moment we are in. As I lock eyes with hers, I think I see a sign, a dread that tears of frustration and bewilderment might soon follow. There’s a pause, then she adds—“I have to go, I have to pick up Angie.” 

Words fail me; I don’t know whether to hold her back nor how to explain. Ultimately, I simply let her be. My gaze follows her as the towel falls to the floor, revealing her naked and beautiful form, while my lungs still seem to quiver within my chest. The time it takes Tina to get dressed feels ludicrously short, at moments unendurably so.

Once clothed, she looks at me, her smile carrying a hint of sorrow, as if somehow we were back in my room on that train, me listening to Tina leaving, not knowing if I’d ever see her again—the difference now is that I read that same fear in Tina’s eyes. Without words, conveying through thoughts alone, she steps closer and caresses my face. Her eyes scan mine, then linger on my lips. She moves away from me—*How can I let you walk away like this?* With a sudden decision, I grab her wrist, halting her and pulling her to me.

Tina already belongs to a moment post-us. Her body is dressed; her skin scented with shower gel, leaving no trace of us. While I’m still here in my undergarments, the scent of our love etched upon me. I draw her close, and in her eyes, I catch the briefest moment of hesitation. But then she leans in, succumbing to my arms, breathing deeply. She presses against me as much as she can, and I enfold her, wishing I could embrace her from every angle, tighter and closer. She buries her face in my neck, her warm breath on my skin, her scent mingling with mine as I exhale a faint “Tina…”

Her lips interrupt my words, answering me as they caress my chest, “I know. It’s all fine, Bette”.

***

Three days have elapsed since I last saw Tina exit my home, since I breathed her in and held her close. In these last three days, I’ve lunched at The Plaza solo, without my wife, clinging to the hope of catching a glimpse of her. I’m privy to her room number, and yet, just as before, I don’t possess a number to call. In these interminable seventy-two hours, my wife, as if sensing a shift, has unexpectedly cleared her schedule, choosing instead to remain at home. Our dialogue on the day I bade Tina farewell was a terse exchange, pared-down and meticulously measured. We were like two seasoned chess players, each move executed with precision, our minds marching far ahead of the seconds ticking by.

Today, as on the past two days, New York is aglow, basked in sunshine beneath a sky of unblemished blue—a spectacle so rare and unfamiliar for our winter. Here I sit in my office, clad in the same dark gray three-piece suit that adorned my frame on the train the day when Tina first came into my life. My gaze lingers out of the floor-to-ceiling window, lost in thought, pondering Tina’s whereabouts, debating whether to venture by room 734 on the chance of seeing her. I mindlessly massage the palm of my left hand with the thumb of my right *It's paradoxical, Tina, how much I desire you and how much you frighten me* I think, letting my gaze bounce off the skyscrapers looming in front of me.

The knock on my office door arrives as a distant echo, the sound growing louder in tandem with the click of the handle and the door inching open. I swivel around to see James, my assistant, extending an envelope toward me. “For you, Bette. There’s no sender and it wasn’t mailed,” he informs me. With alacrity bordering on desperation, I reach for the envelope, a knowing within me that only one person would take the time to pen a note, mirroring the act she performed on that train, with that handwritten note I safeguard in my wallet.

With a nod, I dismiss James, who evaporates as swiftly as he appeared. I stride toward my desk and sink into my chair, the weight of anticipation heavy upon my shoulders. With hands that tremble subtly, I handle the envelope with a gentleness reserved for the most precious of gems.

*My sweetest, experienced lover,* 

*It’s been 3 days full of silence in which I missed you louder than I could expect,*

*I know a place where time stops but sets a rhythm. Would you like to come?*

*I ask you just for a moment, just the time to steal one more memory of you. Of us.*

*I know a place where the music is slow, and we can let go of our waiting lives, leaving or living us in a past we seem to enjoy so much. Would you like to invite me?*

*Would you like to lead me there?*

*T.*

*PS:* *We’ll keep your promise and my wish that we could dance in another bubble of time.*

I turn the note over, and there, scrawled on the back, is an address and a time. 

Today. In one hour.

My eyes track to the watch on my wrist, the second hand audibly ticking in time with my racing heart. I summon James; this afternoon, the management of my delayed return home is essential. I ask him to call my wife’s office to inform them of my unexpected delay. Without hesitation or probing questions, he only asks if he should call a taxi or a private car for me. *Trustworthy James*, I muse with a sense of gratitude, *Such fortunate to have you.*

I close out the last of my emails in a haze of haste, navigating my way toward the elevator where the descending numbers mark the dwindling distance between Tina and me. My finger hovers anxiously over the ground floor button and once engaged, I’m greeted by the sun’s caress as I step outside into the car James arranged mere moments ago.

The traffic is mercifully thin, the journey brief, and when the car halts at the stated address, understanding crystallizes within me. I now see precisely what Tina meant with her invitation. As I grasp the handle and cross the threshold, I’m transported to Barcelona’s Bar Marsella, the place where I sipped absinthe for the first time on my college graduation trip. The echo of that memory coaxes a smile from me.

The venue unfolding before me in the heart of New York stands as a living ode to bygone and nostalgic eras. The bar embraces darkness even in midday, its dimly lit lamps cast a golden luminosity on weathered walls and floors worn by the passage of time, while the aroma of antiquity saturates the atmosphere. My gaze meanders over the worn marble tables lining the perimeter of the room, allowing for a sizeable central space, around which some patrons, souls of bohemian allure, are already seated, captivated by the charm of forgotten ages. A melodic piano reverberates through the space, mingling with hushed laughter and conversations shrouded in intimacy. A young bartender flashes a smile as he polishes a glass, “Can I help you?” he inquires. I return his smile, but my attention is quickly stolen as my eyes find Tina, seated alone, consumed by the study of the wine glass before her. “No, thank you, just a whiskey,” I reply, my footsteps bridging the distance between us across the room.

I drink in the sight of Tina in red, the choice of attire defies the season’s chill and sets her apart for an audacious statementa bold choice for a winter afternoon in New York. 

The dress traces the elegant slope of her figure, fitting her form like a glove tailored for her alone. The fabric clings to every curve and contour of her body, softly drawn across the gentle swell of her hips. The hemline runs daringly high, revealing the breathtaking arc of her thigh with teasing promise—enough to quicken the pulse without spilling into excess. Her bare shoulders are touched by the soft light, skin glowing with warmth that beckons me to brush it with my lips. There is a sensuality in the exposed collarbone, in the gentle slopes and valleys that the neckline reveals, offering glimpses of her, yet leaving enough to my own imagination.

When Tina lifts her eyes and beholds me, our smiles reach across the space, unaffected and genuine, though words jostle in our throats, seeking passage. I settle beside her, the curve of her lips not waning but transmuting into an inviting sensuality.

“You came,” she says with a nervous tinge to her smile.

I want to kiss her; my desires clash with the reality that I still don’t understand what we are. Could I kiss her? Undoubtedly, I want to. But would she want it? If I were to kiss her as one does when joining their partner at a restaurant, what would that signify? *Tina, I want to kiss you so bad*, I think, my eyes flickering down to her mouth. Tina captures her lower lip between her teeth and leans back heavily against the chair as if she could finally find a modicum of relief in my presence.

“Did you truly doubt I would come?” I question, my voice uncertain while I swallow with difficulty, struggling to maintain my composure.

“I only have a few minutes, I can’t stay long, but I needed to see you, Bette." Tina holds my gaze for a lingering second, sending my heartbeat into a stuttering half beating march. I reposition in my chair so that my body faces her, our knees nearly touching. The bartender bring me my whiskey and then leaves, leaving us draped in our secluded union.

“What an incredible place,” I remark, aiming to lighten the weighty air between us. I find myself adrift in thought, an unsettling sensation brewing in the pit of my stomach that perhaps this might be the last of our encounters. The notion strikes resounds through the cavity of my chest, sending a piercing arrow straight to my heart.

My mind drifts back to the night I asked Tina what she wanted from me, our first night together, her self-assuredness encased by protective walls high enough to shield her from feelings. I remember the second night on the train when she asked me to make love to her and then just nights ago in my apartment, Tina laid bare, vulnerable, perhaps even fearful. Now, viewing her anew, she seems altered, silent, attentive, possibly distant? Whatever it is, I feel anxious, and I get lost in her hazel eyes and on her red lips, which she slightly opens for a sigh *How much more I prefer your sighs against my skin.*

“Yeah, well…” she glances around, as if reacquainting herself with a familiar haunt, “I used to come here often when I lived in the city years and years ago. It’s the closest thing to a Milonga I could find in a short time. And if you don’t think about it too much, if you just close your eyes for a moment, you can almost imagine yourself in one of those places, you know? Have you ever been to Argentina?” Her curiosity peaks as she poses the question, buying time, *Perhaps you are not ready to disclose the reason for our meeting?*

"Just once,” I respond, taking a sip from my glass, eyeing her thoughtfully over its rim. Moments heavy with silence pass, and then, subtly, something shifts between us and in her gaze.

“Bette, I asked you to come here because I have things I need to tell you, to ask” her voice deepens, resonant with unfamiliar tranquility, “I need to know what you want from me, Bette. I want to know if there’s an ‘us,’ if it’s too late, or if you want me to remain your clandestine little escapade, if we are just an affair. What do you want, Bette? Who do you want me to be? Because, honestly, I don’t know…but I need you to understand that I do know what I want you to be for me.” Several heartbeats escape before she continues, “Every word I uttered the other night, I meant it—Every. Single. One. But Bette, the stakes are so high for both of us, and I can’t shake the fear that I am not truly prepared for the possibility of your evanescence.” Her eyes show a mix of emotions, with her determination fighting against her fear. It’s like she’s challenging me to cross the gap created by her openness and uncertainty. There’s an undercurrent of finality in her admission, a stark reminder that the leap we contemplate could bridge us to unity or plummet us into the realm of lost chances. I feel tethered to the precipice of her words, my silence in the aftermath of her confession ebbs and flows around us. And without awaiting my answer, she rises, taking few hesitant steps toward the room’s center, then pivots toward me, her smile blossoms, her eyes softly shimmering with unshed tears and Tina extends her hand—an invitation to take it and join her.

For a moment, I’m paralyzed, overcome by her magnificence, her probing words, her requests. I linger, causing Tina to retract her offer slightly, leaning in closer. “Dance with me,” she whispers, a hint of doubt veiling her assurance, “Take my hand, Bette”. Our gazes become locked in an intimate tango even before our bodies make contact.

Unlike the first time we danced in the silence of my train cabin, today there is a piano lending its melody to accompany our steps.

I unbutton my jacket deliberately, allowing it to cascade upon the chair. Rolling up the cuffs of my shirt, I prepare to join her. Rising to my feet, I extend my hand to hers, and upon our touch, I feel her fingers clamp around mine with an intensity that speaks volumes. What a divine sensation to be intertwined with her again. 

I follow her lead and watch as she's wrapped in red, clinging to her curves with a kind of possessive grace—the dress echoes the flush of her excited skin under my lover's gaze. My pulse quickens, each throb urging me to surrender control to Tina as she leads us, with a deliberate slowness, to the dance floor’s center.

Finding a spot that captures our mutual satisfaction, I draw Tina near with a calculated tug, coaxing a swift pivot as she spins to face me. Eye to eye, lips on lips but still a heartbeat apart, her gaze glances at my mouth while I reckon with the deeper hue staining her lips—a darkened note of intrigue thanks to the Malbec she was drinking. I can nearly taste the tender press of her lips upon mine once more, our fingers brush—a whisper of unspoken consent—while I drink in her gift to me, her subtle scent mingling with the floral wildness that is unmistakably, intoxicatingly Tina.

As the first notes play, the world dissolves into nothingness, leaving only the expanse between us. Tina positions her left hand upon my right shoulder; my right hand finds her waist, and our other hands join in a firm embrace. Comfort settles like dust in the warmth of our hands finding their rightful place upon one another.

Then the music wraps around us, an insistent beckoning that animates our limbs. With a barely noticeable rehearsed tilt of her torso backward, Tina signals our cue to begin, and I respond with equal precision as if we’re a fervent machine greased within its most private components. We glide into a slow, testing pattern, a silent exchange as our bodies conduct their wordless dialogue.

We embody the sacred paradoxes—give and take, lead and follow, power and surrender. I guide, yet I adhere to Tina’s subtle body cues, feeling ultimately led by her as I draw near, chest to chest, her breath warm upon my cheek. My thigh insinuates between her own, and I would swear I feel her arousal—or perhaps I project my own against her. But still I hear Tina close her eyes for a moment and let out a small, imperceptible moan.

The gentle pressure of our chests, the thrumming beat of her heart bounces against mine in a furious symphony, our breaths intertwined, and the everything contracts to nothing but Tina, myself, and the haunting melody propelling us forward.

When Tina’s next invitation—an invitación—threads her leg through mine, preempting the movements yet to come, her hand tightens even more across my back and I feel the tips of her fingers eager to scratch, touch, and cling to me while the rest of her body lets go.

With determined steps, I retreat; she advances, keeping tempo with my guidance, yet her grip suggests the directions we will travel, our is a dance of passion binding us tighter than mere physical contact. Our tango speaks volumes of unvoiced conversations; every move is a weighted word laden with tension and promises.

Interlaced legs, an *ocho adelante*, spins us intertwined, limbs that weave intricate plots, defying convention. I feel the warmth of her body radiating, merging with mine.

My knee brushes the inside of her thigh once again, and Tina’s eyes widen, crossed by a bolt of recognition I know all too well, one she’s traced with fingertips against the windows of my home.

In a dramatic pause, the music holds us suspended, and everything halts—time, heartbeats, breath. A chill fire races beneath our skins. Tina barely wets her wine-tinted lips with her tongue, and that simple gesture adds another shiver to my electrified body. The moment stretches, then shatters to the music’s roaring return, and the tango jostles us anew. 

My fingers tentatively wander across the fabric of her dress, that hardly hides the heat of her body and cannot conceal the provocative sway of her hips as they move towards mine. I feel her body against mine, closer and closer. And this closeness, the mere inches apart, fires my imagination, inviting vivid fantasies of what is beneath the dress—of the raw, unexplored flesh waiting for my touch, yearning to be unveiled and worshipped. The heat from Tina’s body wrapps around me, draws me in, dares me to close the gap, to synchronize myself with her.

My touch is light as I draw my hands back up her arms, and even this faint contact is enough to stir her skin into a ripple of delicate bumps. They rise up her arms, spread across her neck, a visible reaction to my featherlight strokes. It’s a touch barely there, yet it’s enough to affect her, enough to make the fabric of her dress shift ever so slightly with her body’s involuntary response.

And this subtle lift of the material reveals a little more of the outline of her figure, hinting at the softness that lies beneath. It sparks within me an intense desire to be even closer, to remove the last layers of separation that stand between us. The longing to have her, unguarded and unadorned, her skin in full contact with mine, grows stronger—a need that feels urgent and immediate.

We rotate slowly together, my hands steering her with precision. She presses in close, resting her face near mine, her cheek grazing my own as her lips whisper, “You still owe me one more thing.” I search her gaze for an eternity, our eyes challenging each other, a mix of flame and frost conveyed in a look that defies description, only to be felt. The music crescendos, and so does the encompassing passion, our climaxing movements painting the air with strokes of desire.

With one last fervent flourish, the tango slows, and once again, we are eye to eye, breath against breath. Her lips are near mine, and the temptation to close that final distance is nearly insufferable. As the music falls into silence, our world continues to spin. The tension, cultivated mid-dance, has arched our bodies toward the inevitable, toward that fervently brushed yet never-crossed boundary of our dance. Her hand slides up to my neck, her fingers trembling but with clear and determined intent. Her eyes roam mine, searching, questioning, yielding—all without uttering a single word. When at last our breaths tangle, it’s as if every note of the tango has led to this singular moment in time. Her lips, ignited by the Malbec, meet mine with a tenderness that belies the fire within. It’s a clash of fire and wine, fervor and gentleness, the contrast sending sparks through my skin. The initial contact between our mouths is delicate but then her lips part against mine. Our tongues meet first with hesitancy, then with a burgeoning hunger that seems to roar from the core of our being. I clutch at her hair, drawing her head closer, deeper, eager to blur the line between her and me.

The kiss deepens, expands, intensifies, everything else around us fading into a distant haze. The world is constructed of nothing more than the beating of our hearts, the whisper of our breathing, and the melding of our mouths. Then Tina breaks away, resting her forehead against mine, eyes closing. I can feel her quickened breath mingling with mine as her voice, fractured in her throat, sweeps over me when she whispers softly, “I think I love you, Bette”. For a span, she says nothing else then, with her throat suddenly choked in a terror-filled swell, she swallows the tension, tears gathering warm in her eyes, whispering two more words to my heart “Choose me”.

My answering silence is long, I am rendered incapable of formulating a thought, my voice a hostage of the moment as I fix my gaze upon her. I believe time stretches so thin that Tina shakes her head and retreats from my grasp, and moment later reemerges into my field of vision already donning her coat, heading for the exit *Am I really letting you walk away like this?* I think while I stand still here, feeling the eyes of the world on me in a room almost emptied. Tina has once more challenged me to make one of the most difficult decisions of my life.

And so, here I am, motionless and breathless, poised to make the easiest choice of all."