The folk dancers gather, circle out, promenade, move to the music. A man in a brown hat calls out directions, and the audience whispers, “Is that English?” The Portuguese folk dancers are performing for a mother-daughter tea party in the church basement. “No, It’s Portuguese.” The women sit at tables with various china cups. We eat tiny sandwiches and beam politely at the entertainment.
In a white shirt with a blue sash at his waist, a grey-haired man focuses on his task of guiding the women. He is serious, glancing at the ceiling as if the next steps are printed there, or staring at the man in the hat for the next command. He is precise while the other dancers play. Naturally, he is the one I love the most, so I stop paying attention to anyone else in the rotation. I am grinning to the point of confusing my…
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