Tango at Sixty-One

My husband has two left feet. He has always had two left feet. So when I signed us up for Argentine tango lessons for our thirty-fifth anniversary, he looked at me as if I'd asked him to join the circus.

The first class was a disaster. He stepped on my toes eleven times. I counted. The instructor, a tiny woman named Valeria with silver hair and the posture of a queen, kept saying, "Walk, just walk. Tango is walking together."

By week six, something clicked. He stopped looking at his feet. He started looking at me. We moved across the floor slowly, our foreheads almost touching, and for the first time in years, I felt nineteen.

Now we go every Thursday. He bought shoes with leather soles. He practices in the kitchen while the coffee brews. Last week, Valeria danced with him to demonstrate a turn and told the class, "This one, he listens with his whole body." He blushed all the way home.