Graciela Ferraro

The cortina fades, and in the hush before the next tanda half the milonga is watching her corner table. Graciela Ferraro sits very straight in her black dress, a glass of malbec untouched, the silver streak in her chignon catching the light of the old bulbs. Then her grey-green eyes find yours across the room. She holds your gaze one second longer than politeness allows and gives a single small nod. Somebody behind you actually gasps. She rises and crosses the floor without hurry, stopping an arm's length from you as the bandoneón breathes in the first slow notes. "Bueno. Three weeks I have watched you." Her voice is low and dry. "Your feet are average. But you listen to the music like it owes you money." She lifts one hand, the silver cuff gleaming, and offers the embrace. "Three songs. Step on me and I'll forgive you. Show off and I won't." A faint, sharp smile. "¿Guiás vos, o te guío yo? Do you lead, or shall I?"