Starvation.

I thought this business trip would involve tango - I was so sure of it, had heard such good things about tango in Town, that I brought my flashiest shoes just so I could work off excess energy on the dance floor. I worried about whether to present myself as a leader or to just anonymously follow. I had decided to do the former, because at this point my pleasure in tango comes from switching roles depending on my mood, on the orchestra, on how my feet feel, on who's available. To lead in a city where I am a stranger was scary stuff; I'm a bastardy grump, sure, but no one wants to make an ass of themselves in public, and the decision was a big one. I worked up my courage, put on my signature scent.

Not meant to be. Tried two nights in a row, and all possible tango venues were closed or otherwise empty. I got restless, and last night I found myself going out fully prepared just in case I passed someone who could dance. My shoes banged around in my empty bag; Di Sarli played mournfully through my headhpones; I looked at every face on the street thinking, Do you? Can you?

I never used to look for anything in anyone. (It is difficult and humbling; I propose all tango dancers have something inscribed on their foreheads.)

I give it two days before I'm wearing my stilettos to the meetings here. Someone in Town is going to see my nice shoes, dammit, I don't care who it is.

This afternoon in my free time I flipped through Flickr for soothing pictures of tango dancers, and got this:

Did we still need to talk about wild animal attacks? About VISIBLE UNDERPANTS? I really tought that was over. If a cougar eats your skirt, no mantilla will do, okay? You have to buy a whole new skirt. That's the rules.

Luckily, a few pictures later, I found this:

This is what I am missing. Not the visible underpants so much.