***

It was dark and bitterly cold, and the wind was whipping up the street. It was insane to have gone to the beach, but Stacy had needed to; he had to try. He had needed to see the ocean, to be near its cleansing waves.

Head down, coat pulled tight against him, Stacy hustled away from the boardwalk and the ocean, and hurried down Baltimore Avenue. He had had this crazy hope that the power of the waves might wash away his sadness and his pain. Maybe if he had gotten wet it would have worked, but in the middle of January, the ocean was far too cold.
He turned up his collar as a frigid rain began pelting him; the icy droplets burning his face. Halfway down Baltimore Avenue, it started to pour and he began to run. He took cover under the overhang, against the side of a building that housed an art gallery called Anita Peghini-Räber Gallery. The street was deserted, but music and voices from inside the gallery found him. He looked in, and as he did, the door opened. A tall woman in a long, flowing, colorful dress opened the door. She had tangled blonde hair pinned in place and a captivating smile.
“Come in, dear. Don’t stand in the rain.”
Stacy saw people dancing and having fun, but he didn’t want to interrupt the party.
“Don’t be shy, come in.” The woman reached out, taking hold of his sleeve.
“I don’t want to intrude.” Stacy rubbed at his chin, a nervous habit his wife had tried, and failed, to stop.
“Intrude?” She had a small accent. “We’re dancing the tango; you can’t intrude.”
“I don’t dance.”
“That’s OK, come get warm. You’ll freeze out here.” Her voice was exotic. She was exotic. “I’m Anita.”
He stepped up and into a long glass porch. “Stacy, Stacy Fischer.”
The main gallery room inside was large and lit by candles. It looked warm and inviting. There were maybe twenty people, some paired off dancing, others standing to the side, talking and watching the dancers. Stacy, unsure, studied the room quickly. There were paintings everywhere, on walls and on easels pushed against the walls. The paintings were whimsical and ethereal, much like Anita.
Couples danced in small circles in the center of the room. It wasn’t the fierce straight-line tango that Stacy remembered from old movies. He watched for a second, then caught Anita watching him. He stepped back. He didn’t belong there.
“Give me your coat, Stacy. Come dry off.” She was still smiling.
“I shouldn’t.”
Anita coaxed him lightly. Stacy frowned, and stepped into the cozy room. As he entered, some turned and looked, some smiled, and one gentleman nodded, but most kept dancing.
“Earl, Stacy needs a glass of wine,” Anita said to an older man standing nearby as she hung Stacy’s coat.
She led Stacy in, and when Earl returned she introduced them. “Earl, this is Stacy. He was getting soaked.”
“Welcome to tango night,” said the slender, gray-haired, sixty-something man.
“Thank you.” Stacy took the glass and watched as Anita moved across the room. She was elegant and graceful.
“Do you like to dance?” Earl asked.
“No, I was just trying to get out of the rain. She dragged me in.” Stacy nodded across the room.
“She can be persuasive.”
“Insistent.”
“In a sweet way.”
Stacy looked outside. It was pouring. He sipped the cheap wine and scrutinized the dancers. Most were men and women around his age. One man, who looked younger than most and accompanied an older woman around the floor, was a particularly good dancer. His movements were precise and polished.
Stacy panned the room. He wanted to smile, but his heart wouldn’t let him. He sighed, put the glass down and looked for his coat.
Anita reappeared at his side. “Stacy, you should dance.” Her eyes twinkled in the overhead lights. She was a beautiful woman with a perpetual smile.
“I should go.”
“Dancing will help you, no matter the sorrow.” This she whispered in his ear.
“I can’t dance.” He rubbed his chin.
“Surely you’ve danced, at weddings?”
“At weddings.” Stacy looked outside. His burden was heavy and squeezing his heart. He wanted to hide.
“Oliver,” Anita called to the center of the room. “Can I borrow you?”

. . . . . .