Last week I only dared watch, but now, under the baubled lights that sway over a tree-lined square swollen with longing, I buckle my black tango shoes, hold my breath like a platform diver preparing to plunge in, wonder if tonight I will be asked. Couples slide across the square, their embraces a circling dialogue of pulse and pause, self and other. I shift my feet, coltish. Then this, the tilt of a head beneath a fedora, an elderly hand stretched out from an immaculate pinstriped suit, a '¿Quiere bailar?' I nod, hold up my palm, step into the space.
Becky May used to dance tango at milongas in London, Buenos Aires, and Granada but now mostly dances in her kitchen. Find her on Twitter @beckymaywriter.