“That,” he says, “is for the stage. Now . . .” He glances again at his partner as she goes to the stereo to restart the song. This time they come together slowly, as though they’re strangers meeting for the first time. He takes her in his arms and their movements are unchoreographed, and even more tightly entwined. They dance in a close embrace, with no space for dramatic flairs of Angelina’s long, muscled legs. They move together not in synchronization as before, but more as one being. It’s equally beautiful, but in miniature, as though the dance contains an entire world held firmly between the two partners. Watching them feels voyeuristic and tantalizing. “That,” Gianluca says, floating away from Angelina after several minutes, “is the real tango. It’s not a choreographed dance, it’s a language two people speak. You will never dance the same tango twice, even with the same partner to the same song. Tango comes from the streets; it’s a dance that’s owned by the people of this city, the working class, los inmigrantes. You will no doubt hear about it being danced in brothels. At one time, Buenos Aires was a place of many lonely bachelors, but don’t mistake it for being only about sex. It’s infused with centuries”—he gestures dramatically with both hands—“of longing, of yearning for home, for the love of a good woman.” He flashes a smile at Angelina. “And I want you to feel also its rebellious spirit. Tango is the dance of anarchists, revolutionaries; there is a longing not only to be sensual, but also to be free.” He pauses for a moment, and the silence in the room tells me I am not the only one in the palm of his hand. “So that, my friends, is the spirit I want you to keep in your hearts as you learn tango.”

With that, we go into combinations and move in a circle, trading partners every few minutes. Each time I dance with Gianluca, I feel my attraction deepening. It feels elemental: the way he smells, the way it feels to be carried along while I’m dancing with him. But it feels distant too, like an unattainable crush. It’s the opposite of my feelings for Luke, which are so bound up in everything: in friendship, family, loss, loyalty, and betrayal.

After the hour, we’re cast back out into the humid January night, and I’m counting the minutes until I can come back.

The tango classes add some much-needed structure to my life in Buenos Aires, and soon I’ll also have my tours. I throw myself into preparing for my first outing with tourists by frantically studying the sites I’m showing and buying several guides and history books from the cozy bookstore around the corner from my apartment, which has a surprisingly large English-language section.