Do you tango?
In an empty hotel ballroom, the echo of swirling footsteps... He guides her with fervor of an alpha wolf and grace of the last falling leaf floating through cold November air.
When they dance, they care not where they are. For them, it is a restaurant patio in Sierra de Córdoba, where whiskey flows, and they are accompanied by a thunderous echo of a distant storm.
He is Romeo; she is Elle Woods. They tango alone.
He is the Picture of Oscar Wilde; she is the voice of Susan Boyle. They tango in a crowded hotel lobby in India.
Now it is the docks of Sierra Leone. She is dreaming of a slice of Papa John's Spinach Alfredo Deluxe. In his dream, he is a soldier in uniform, and she speaks Zulu, nothing but Zulu, which is surprising because everyone else in Lima speaks Spanish. They have weird dreams.
The echo fades, and they are back in India, no wait... Sierra de Córdoba... or Leone. Life is motion blur.
Bravo! I say, but to them my voice is, at best, an echo of an echo. This is no foxtrot. This is Sierra de Córdoba! This is tango! This is Sparta!
Now I am starting to sound like an echo. Good thing, this is only an alpha version of my masterpiece... my kilo of bull...