can get to the last station, climb the icy stairs, cross the frozen town of small steps, so as not to slip, open iron door, and (finally) be in heat. Pull out of the bag and cold hard shoes, stick them legs, feet slightly scratched. Remove fat sweater, and dumb to bend backwards to feel the back of silk blouses. Move the curtain of artificial velvet and enter the hall: parquet and mirror, rustling tinsel and the smell of tangerines. Dance lessons. Salsa. In byword teacher all the wisdom of human relations. One, two, three. Look. Five, six, seven. Smiling allowed. One, two, three. Not hold. Five, six, seven. Me again. Game. Trying to understand the idea of a partner in the eyes, the lips of way he wrinkled forehead. I love salsa. There's no excessive passion and parting like the tango, or oppressive sexuality bachata. laugh and flirt first meeting. When all easily. When all else can be. Five, six, seven. Reversal. Oops. Double. Fit. Time to notice the edge of his eyes light interest on the face of the bored in the corner of Aki and understand that this time did everything right. Cheers.
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