Kisses, Candy Bars and Tango

I ask myself….Robert, what are you? A man? Or some kind of sissy
crybaby? Because every time I dance the tango with Natasha, I've got
to go off into some quiet corner of The Bistro Latin Tango Bar and
cry for a while. Friends see me huddled against the wall, holding my
handkerchief to my face. They mistake my sobbing for laughter. Maybe
it is laughter. I'm really very happy. They ask me, "Robert, what's
so funny?" I try to answer, but I can't get the words past the
constriction in my throat. They walk away, shaking their heads. When
I dance the tango with Natasha, something.... I don't know
what......climbs into my soul and my heart simply melts.

An immense marble square is spread like a great chessboard before the
magnificent, the stunning architectural eloquence of the Paris Hotel
de Ville. A breathtaking view! One that strikes me into immobility
every time I emerge from the subterranean twilight of the metro into
the heart of this incredible tribute to French creative genius. I
scan the square, looking for Natasha. Tall, sculptured lampposts
stand posted on the marble plaza like finely carved chessboard
sentinels. Their yellow gaslight lifts the cloak of darkness above
the tall chimneys, precariously balanced and riding high and stately
among the gargoyles staring down from their perch along the steeply
inclined rooftops.

I spot Natasha sitting on the ledge by the fountains along la rue de
Rivoli. She's easy to pick out in a crowd. Her natural grace, the
unconscious way she moves or just sits, make her stand out from the
people around her. Her knees are crossed, and her nylon-clad thighs
are thrust into view from between the slit in the black raincoat she
wears like a cloak. Her long, slim, almost skinny legs are twisted,
one behind the other, as if they were Italian noodles. The sparkling
waters behind her play with the light which dances like fireflies in
the soft strands of her hair, tied in a ponytail that has an
enchanted life of its own.

I sit down next to her. She's munching on a candy bar. It's
chocolate. The crunchy kind. I put my hand on her nylon thigh and
feel its heat, then slip an arm under her raincoat and around her
waist, drawing her close. She stops munching. She closes her eyes and
puckers her lips. I brush them with mine. Then she starts chewing
again. She extends her crunch bar towards me. I hold her hand and
take a big bit.

"Ah! Non," she says, examining the stub of her candy bar. "You are a
greedy American! If you loved me, you would not bite all of my candy
bar!" But I do want to bite her candy bar. I want to enter her body
and her soul and dance and laugh and swim naked in the Luxembourg
gardens. I'm in big trouble, I know. I can tell, because I've never
been jealous over a girl before. But all that has changed. No man can
walk past Natasha without wanting to glue his fat lips onto her sweet
rosebud mouth, without wanting to cradle that sweet oval face with
its beautifully ugly, protruding cheek bones, its great round eyes,
set much too far apart on either side of a shapeless nose that looks
like a couple of black tear drops embedded on either side of a pink,
perpetually shiny grape.

I keep telling myself jalousie is part of the game. You've got to
understand this, Robert. I mean God, or whomever, made us this way.
It's healthy to want to ram some guy's teeth down his throat for
wanting to steal your woman. It's the manly thing to do. I mean, if
you think you have it tough, Robert, just look at those poor
goddamned moose out in the woods, biting and bucking and butting
their goddamned heads together, while the object of their affection
munches grass, waiting for the lucky winner to come over and collect
her. You've got to keep this thing under control, Robert.

I do control it, I tell myself. I overcompensate. I go out of my way
to introduce Natasha to other guys and invite other guys to dance
with her. But I can't always hide it. Actually, I think she enjoys
seeing this streak of jalouse insanity explode in me, like green
sweat from some hell deep region in my soul. I think she likes making
this happen, with her practice of subtle flirtation and her exuberant
entretiens with guys who lock onto her dazzling, wide-mouth smile and
see the skies light up.

She likes seeing that dark green shade creep into my eyes, my
unsmiling lips, my clenched fists. It tells her I really love her and
that I'm desperate. It reassures her that I'm really out of my mind.
It makes her feel desired, wanted. On the other hand, I guess she's
always been a friendly, vivacious kind of girl. She can't help it,
and people just naturally love her. Impossible not to. I've got to
get a grip on this monster that's eating at my guts. I don't see
Natasha having trouble with this sort of thing. What does that tell
you, Robert?

I solemnly swear to Natasha that I will buy her another candy bar. "A
really big, superior candy bar?" she wants to know. "Yes, indeed," I
tell her, "and champagne to go with it when we get to The Tango Bar."
We get up from our place at the edge of the fountain. That is to say,
I get up, but Natasha never just rises. She floats, as if she had
wings, and she lands with a little pirouette or some other kind of
movement that's so light and natural it always looks right. But it
can be a problem.

Last week, at this same spot, we were waiting to cross la rue de
Rivoli, heading, as usual, for the Tango Bar at le Bistro Latin. The
light turns green, and Natasha floats off the curb into the path of a
fast moving Citroën, running the light. She probably weighs a hundred
pounds or so. I yank her bodily into the air and haul her back onto
the curb. I expect her to react violently to this incident. After
all, it was a near death kind of thing. "Are you OK?," I ask
her. "Sure," she says, shrugging her shoulders."It's fate. You were
there for me tonight, Robert. You're part of my fate. But, when it's
time to go, you just gotta go. That's it. There's nothing you can do
about it."

Tonight, as the light turns green, Natasha again floats off the curb,
but this time the oncoming traffic is well down the street. We cross
la rue de Rivoli, and Natasha, in stiletto-heels and high spirits,
begins her absurd, slew-footed prance down la rue du Temple, heading
for the tango bar. I'm in love with her debauched, slew-footed walk.
The way her thighs seem to part with every step is extremely
suggestive. She's Carmen, a dark eyed gypsy beauty, on a break from
the cigarette factory, and I'm her Don Jose, the esteemed American
bull-shitter, lurching beside her in a lopsided gait, like
Frankenstein's Igor.