on the eve of a fat sunday

Around midnight, she is walking home, her pace brisk against the cold. No traffic, no people, she hears the music from far away. Its longing.  Getting louder. It pours from an old theater. An open door, a flight of steps...  here's the milonga.
The hands. Wide open on backs, around hips. Taking such clear possession, turning each dancing pair into lovers. Then the music ends, pairs shift, and the same hands claim a different body. Surrender into brief belonging.