From four-thirty to six the tango classroom is empty. I got here thirty minutes before that and I have nothing to do. I ought to do homework, but that's hard when there is no homework to do. I spent an hour reading the Spring issue of Caliper, our lit mag, aloud to the empty air. I skipped the pieces I didn't like and only declaimed the ones that I deemed good, which really means heartrending. At least my heart was wrenched from reading them, or maybe it was the combined weight of all the pieces I read that at last led me to seek the hard grey wooden box that we all use as a bench and stuff-rest. I lay there for ten minutes and have been writing for five so my class will start in fifteen minutes. Today, Murat is substituting for Valeria and my sister will be there, but despite that, I am still younger than all the other students by at least a decade. So in fifteen minutes, there will be an hour of ochos and crossed walks and caminadas and maybe boleos but I doubt that because Robert taught me that move and he said it's an Intermediate move and I'm only Pre-Intermediate. So in twelve minutes there will be sweaty hands and awkward steps and musky minty breaths and men and women old enough to be my mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles... hell, a grandparent or two. Only someone my sister's age can get a romantic attachment to someone from this bunch. She and Robert met at a milonga and now she's with him more than us and they, in Robert's own words, are living in sin, which sounds bad, but I can't see them marrying so it's alright. So in ten minutes there will be embraces and turns, retreats and advances. There will be music and dancing, and really, it won't be so bad. It's only kind of sad, if my roleplays were real, I'd have someone to love and dance with.