“I thought it was the dance of anarchists and immigrants.” Did I say that to show I’m listening or to be contrary? Both.

“It began in the conventillos, was created by the poor, by the children of slaves, like most art forms worth anything. But then the rich boys who liked to go to the brothels on the wrong side of town got a yen for it and took it with them on their European tours. Once it became the rage in Paris, the high-class Porteños wanted their export back, this freshly laundered version of it. But its heart remains the same, and if you don’t hear the heartbeat, Liz”—he closes the space between us in one swift movement so that his breath is in my ear—“you can’t dance it.”

G goes to find a song on his playlist. It has the regular elements: violin, flutes, bandoneóns, but it’s jazzed up with unexpected drums and rhythms overlaying the classical strains. It’s still dramatic, but more playful too. G is rolling his shoulders back and forth as he walks back to me. I pull my frame up, ready to be taken back into his capable arms. He shakes his head at me. “You see, I like this because it’s a ‘new’ style, but in reality it’s a throwback to the origins, when tango was fused with Candombe still, with the echoes of African drums. Now, close your eyes.”

I look at him, confused.

“Close. Your. Eyes.”

I do as I’m told.

“Don’t worry about steps, just move to the music for a few minutes.”

I open my eyes. What am I doing here? I’m in one of the bad dance movies that Penny and Emily used to watch over and over in high school.

“Closed,” he says. “Move. Feel.”

I want to laugh. I feel silly. I tentatively start into a tango step.

“No steps,” G says, grasping my shoulders and holding me in place. “Just stay there and move. You need to give yourself over to the music, get out of your head.”

I feel like I’m naked and being examined by a roomful of strangers.

“Relax,” he says.

I start to sway my shoulders back and forth.

“I don’t think I can do this.” My heart is hammering.

“You can, just let go. Don’t think. Be in your body: your hips, your shoulders, your hands,” he says, his hands brushing first my hips, then my shoulders. “Don’t think about tango, don’t think about dancing at all. Just move, find something to connect to.” I still have my eyes closed, but I can hear that he’s close to me, only inches away.

“Good, good. There we go,” he says.