Salsa and Curry

By 2001, I needed a change. The dry spell had left me thirsty, and my social circle was getting stale. My friend Ricardo had been taking Salsa classes, and for a long time, I rolled my eyes at it. Structured dancing? Rules? Not my style.

But then I went to a birthday party. A girl asked me to dance, and I stood there like a statue, stepping on her toes, unable to find the beat. I felt ashamed, but I also looked around the room. I saw Ricardo spinning girls, laughing, touching.

I saw the ratio: three women for every man.

Suddenly, I loved Salsa.

I started classes in April. By June, I was ready for the "Salsa Beach Trip." The group was a mixed bag. Most of the girls were forgettable, but there was one who caught my attention. Not because she was the most beautiful—she wasn't—but because she had a presence.

Her name was Beatriz.

She was thirty-two, five years older than me. In the harsh light of the beach, she was an average package: a bit heavy on the hips and legs, but with a fit upper body and a nice smile. She wasn't a trophy, but she was interesting.

The spark didn't happen on the dance floor; it happened in my car.

Beatriz asked to ride with me to escape the relentless salsa music in the other cars. "Thank God," she sighed as she sat in the passenger seat. "If I hear one more trumpet, I’ll scream."

The two passengers in the back fell asleep immediately, leaving us in a private bubble. We spent the drive playing a game with the radio—guessing the band, debating the lyrics. We connected. She was sharp, funny, and she didn't treat me like a kid.

We started hanging out. Dinner, cinema, drinks. It was a slow burn. I was torn—I had a crush on a colleague at work, and I wasn't sure where to place my bets.

Then came the dinner in November.

Beatriz invited me to an Indian restaurant. We devoured spicy curry and drank two bottles of red wine. The alcohol loosened our tongues. We argued, we laughed, we flirted with an intensity that surprised me. She was wild, intelligent, and completely unpretentious.

We moved to a Jazz bar for more wine, then a final stop for garlic bread at 4:00 AM. We spent six hours together, and the air was thick with chemistry.

I dropped her off, but I didn't make a move. I was still hedging my bets with the work colleague.

I was an idiot. I should have made a move that night. But fate was saving the fireworks for a bigger occasion.