wicked tongue

2012, March 20

“- Shall I say something not nice about someone? You’re sworn to secrecy of course.
“- Guess so…”

This lady had come to me to report one of the dancers on the floor. “He sat there waiting for the prettiest girl around to be available, and now look he’s dancing with her. Me, he never invites me… ” and so on.

As she had spoken softly, I failed to understand the name of the said dancer, and as she kept looking deliberately at the wall I could not lock him either. The prettiest girl… None of the women on the floor was in position, to my mind, to claim the title hands down.

Short-listing the leaders whom I know are given to inviting sometimes cheesecakes rather than technicians, I reduced the possibilities to four.

J. who was multiplying the corte-quebradas with a nothing-special-but-under-25 chubby beginner
K., fond of deep, static ganchos, who had invited a teen doted with this kind of deceptive innocence found in pictures by David Hamilton.
N. whose massive partner would have delighted the readers of Crumb comics.
G. tight-glued to a young tango beginner, but proficient in salsa and already making good use of her legs flexibility.

I tried to get clues to identify the girl, the first name, maybe something about her clothes or shoes or hair color …

“- The most beautiful, really, you’re sure?
– Yes, by his own standards at least.”

And with this said she returned to her table. As none of those leaders invited her afterwards either, the mystery remains unsolved.

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