Once more I sit, sweat drying on my shirt, Fernet and Coke in hand, wondering, watching. The dancer sits near the bar, tilting her head back to laugh, hair falling across her shoulders.
I know I’m not good enough to ask her to dance and yet I look, fascinated. Unable to pull my eyes away.
“Hey, boludo, she’s gonna think you’re crazy,” my friend hits me on the arm.
I immediately look away, embarrassed, and mumble.
My friend raises her eyebrow at me and asks,
“What did you say?”
“I said I’d kill to dance with her. Half the tanda! One song of a tanda! Half a song!”