Tanturi Campos
<p>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.</p>
<p>I know I’m not good enough to ask her to dance and yet I look, fascinated. Unable to pull my eyes away.</p>
<p>“Hey, <em>boludo</em>, she’s gonna think you’re crazy,” my friend hits me on the arm.</p>
<p>I immediately look away, embarrassed, and mumble.</p>
<p>My friend raises her eyebrow at me and asks,</p>
<p>“What did you say?”</p>
<p>“I said I’d kill to dance with her. Half the tanda! One song of a tanda! Half a song!”</p>
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