“Do you always attend the carnival?” he inquires.
“Always. What about you?”
“This is my first in a decade.”
I cock my head. “What made you attend tonight?”
“No particular reason. I happened to be in Pombrio, which isn’t a frequent occurrence.”
It’s weird, talking with him like this…
Has he really not recognized me?
Then he shoots me that smile I could never resist, and it comes as a punch to my senses. Mentally, I swat away the old memories that it stirs up.
“What should I call you, beautiful stranger?” he asks.
“This is a costume ball,” I reply. “You don’t need to call me anything.”
“But I want to.”
I shake my head.
“Then I’ll call you… Let’s see…” He pinches his chin.
I panic he might say “Gigi.” In the unlikely event he’s recognized me, I’d rather we both keep pretending he hasn’t.
“Cindy,” I blurt. “Call me Cindy.”
“Like Cyndi Lauper?”
“Do I look like an 80s pop star?” I arch an eyebrow, regaining some of my usual aplomb. “You need to go further back in time. It’s Cindy, as in Cinderella.”
Beats me why I picked that alias.Could it be because I’m in a reverse Cinderella situation?
“Enchanté,” Henri says. “I’d love to be your prince for the night.”
“Am I to call you prince, then?”
He begins to say something when the orchestra shifts gears, and the music morphs into the sultry strains of a tango.
Henri interrupts himself to hold out a hand in invitation. “Care to dance, Cindy?”
Before I know it, I hear myself say, “Sure, why not?”
What the hell?
As we step into the dance, Henri’s hand feels warm on my waist, firm and confident. His touch is both painfully familiar and thrillingly foreign. We move together in a push and pull as our bodies effortlessly find the rhythm. It’s like jumping back in time. His scent is that same mix of sandalwood, spice, and something potent produced by his body that makes my head spin.
This isn’t just any sexy smell. This particular cocktail of pheromones and fragrance smells like my first kiss, my sexual awakening, the impression of flying when I walked… It smells like my first love.
With each step, each turn, I find myself hyperaware of Henri. The controlled movements of his body and the way he guides me across the floor bring back so many memories! It’s disorienting, this blend of past and present, of what we were and what we are now. Even more unsettling is his body being so close to mine—just like old times.
We don’t talk much. I focus on the dance steps. His grip is secure, his movements precise. We’re in perfect sync, despite the years and the distance. It’s like my body remembers what my mind has worked so hard to forget.
We turn, glide and twist. Our arms embrace. Our legs press together. Our half masks touch from time to time. His beard feels unexpectedly soft against my upturned cheek. This being a tango, every brush is a sensual caress, a foretaste of what could happen if we let it.
As the music reaches its crescendo, Henri pulls me closer still. Unable to resist, I let myself lean into him, into the dance. The feel of him sends waves of pleasure to my foggy brain. The world blurs around us, leaving just him and me locked in this suspended moment, in this sultry tango that will remain etched in my memory.
