April 1982 - Panama City, Panama

Angela stormed to the concierge desk, Michael trailing behind her, and asked the young woman decisively for a list of nearby clubs.

"What, no yellow pages?" Michael sneered.

She loathed to engage him but found herself exceedingly curious about something. In an overly academic cadence, she replied, "If you don't know something, you ask someone who does. You don't proceed as though you already do. It's called humility, smartass."

He squeezed his glare tighter, and the unblinking woman went to compile the list.

Angela turned to him as she leaned against the counter, "For example, if I say I had a fender bender, I don't mean I totaled my car. If I admit I'm attracted to my boss, it doesn't mean I do squats on top of his desk. You asked me – the person who knows – and I told you. You proceeding as though you know more than I do is foolish."

"What's your point?"

"I want to know why you'd have to have a woman squish all up against you to "catch up" to my behavior, when what I apologized for was giggling and - apparently - touching my own neck. Isn't that a bit presumptuous? I'm asking why you would assume that. Your own practice?"

The concierge looked cautiously between the two of them and slid Angela a paper with the requested information.

"Thank you," Angela said to the woman, pointedly, and read the alphabetized list. She looked back up to her, "And which is your favorite?"

Somewhat nervously, the woman pointed to one of them. "La Torre - it's about 6 blocks south of here," she said, probably quieter than she normally would've. She pointed to the main doors, "Go out, and to the right. At the end, it doglegs off to the left. Just follow the music."

"Thank you," Angela said to the woman again. "Because you know and I don't, I will follow your instructions to the letter." Angela eyed Michael as she turned toward the doors.

She walked quickly down the road, and even with a few drinks in him, Michael kept up easily.

Angela glanced back over her shoulder. "You gonna stow away? Then answer the question, Michael," she said as she huffed along. "How is what you did 'catching up' to me? Is it because you're assuming I'm doing so much worse than I've admitted to – because that's what you do?"

"I haven't done anything!"

"Neither have I," she said with almost cartoon-like sarcasm.

"Okay, so now I've surpassed you. Apparently, this is a game of one-upmanship…"

She stopped and swung her ponytail around to look him in the eye. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

Michael didn't say anything but tightened his face. She shook her head to herself. "Well, I hear revenge is sweet," she said acerbically and started to walk again. "I'll letcha know – seeing as you have no regrettable amount experience in this area."

He grabbed her hand, both of them breathing deeply. As sincerely as she imagined he could with a few beers in him, he asked, "Angela, is this really what you want?"

She gave a self-deprecating laugh, and matched his quiet sincerity, "Since when is that a qualifier?"

After a pause, Michael's eyes hardened, and he released her. "You're blaming me because you're not happy?"

She didn't say anything.

"Oh, yes, poor you," he mocked. "I've ruined your life! And what joy you've brought to mine!"

Angela looked up at him furiously, unwilling tears only able to blind her, not silence her. "I have been beating my brains out trying to make us work! You terrify me, Michael! You're up and down, and all over the place! I don't know why, but everything about us is explosive! You're mean! You drive me crazy, but I love you! I can't help that, and I wanted us to work!" She paused a few seconds and took a deep breath through her nose. "But you're right, I don't need excuses. And seeing as I've hurt you so bad that my pain means nothing to you, just go!" she pointed back to the hotel. "Enjoy your freedom! She looks lovely! But now I'm going to do something that I want to do," she slowed her speech for clarity, "because I can…" Taking a breath, she exhaled, "You don't have to watch."

She started walking again, trying to wipe the tears from her eyes so that the trail of mascara wouldn't be seen.

He followed her, continuing his panic. "Nothing you're saying is making sense! You say you don't need excuses, but that's all I'm hearing! I don't want you to go there by yourself. You don't even look like you want to go by yourself. So why are you going?"

Her volume rose with her hands as she again stopped to yell in his face. "You keep talking about right now! Didn't you hear anything else I said? I can never win with you! You yank me around, and then wonder what my problem is! Here's a clue: I'm going nuts!" she screamed.

She stood there staring at him for a few seconds, all the emotion costing her far more of her breath than the exercise. Then, her voice quieted and steadied, and she finished. "So, yeah, maybe I'm not making sense because the truth is, I'm just looking for any out…and maybe I'm not the only one."

Between her index and middle finger, Angela cut the space between them with her ring. He stared at it in horror, and she shoved it in his hands before she started walking again.

Michael looked as out of breath as she and hesitated before following her.

"You also said you loved me!"

She kept walking but squeezed out another set of tears.

"Well, I love you, too!"

He looked around as he followed her, a step or two back. "Angela, it's not even safe to go wandering around by yourself at night!"

She nearly screamed in frustration, but just doubled over to gag as she stumble-walked. Oh, my stomach! I can't stand it when he acts like he cares! I always fall for it!

"Angela!"

Ignoring him, she did her best to resume an upright posture as she speed-walked through the narrow streets.

Angela could hear the music from afar, but actually smiled when she got close enough to feel the beat in her chest. La Torre was an unmarked, two-story, stone building with an uncovered roof, and from the square windows cut through the rock, the party looked like it was going on all three levels. There wasn't a line, just a free-flowing entrance where dozens of people went continually in and out at will.

She opened the heavy, wooden door, and Michael took it as she passed into the dark room. The communal pulse of the beat - similar, but faster, than the music in the bar - invited her into the fray and deadened her agony. The dance floor itself had a low, red lighting. But different colored spotlights blinked off and on around the room every few seconds, maddeningly hindering the predictability of the shadows, and comforting the varied throng with an equalizer. No hiding here.

As she walked around, Angela could see, predictably, that the outer rim of the room was for spectators, while the middle was cleared for dancing. But unlike The Catcall, people here looked like they gave each other as much dancing space as they could. Well, it's a different type of dancing.

Angela stepped to the edge by the bar, where one of their several industrial fans could blow in her direction. She watched, mesmerized, as the dancers seemed to spin together effortlessly. Despite the lighting and the freedom of steps some of the couples were apparently taking, this was actually much more like the ballroom dancing she'd been taught in school, than the haphazard chaos of freestyle dancing.

She watched the footwork carefully, getting into the zone. When the band changed songs, she turned around to order a kamikaze. I need some dancing juice. She drank it in one swig, and it pooled like acid in her already fraught stomach. Baskets of fry bread dotted the bar, and she snagged a piece like she saw other people doing. Hyperaware that Michael stood nearby, watching her, she turned around and tried to, again, focus on the dancing.

Angela's head bobbed with the music, and she let her hips sway to the beat as she walked up the stairs to see what else this place offered. She found the second floor was for freestyle – and sure, enough, they're much more tightly packed on this level, while an additional bar on the roof was for mingling.

While becoming more comfortable with freestyle over the years, Angela was intrigued by the ordered ritual of the first floor. She descended the steps and continued to watch the couples move with their own signature flares to the crisp structure of the steps.

She was staring intently at the dancers, leaning against the stairs, when deep, Texan voice interrupted her, "Hey, beautiful."

Angela jolted to the present, irrationally terrified, and looked at him with her mouth open.

"Sorry, Miss," he laughed. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was just wonderin' if you wanted to dance." He was tall, athletic, had deep blue eyes, and a crew cut.

A GI.

She glanced over at Michael, who was staring at her. All of her claims of being a prudent thinker and a contribution to patient civility in her own marriage disintegrated to the excuses of the stuck. Michael was right. She wasn't doing anyone any favors pretending against her own humanity, and she was sick of paying for them. Self-pity is cheap. I'm not any better than Michael is, and I don't have to stay with him. But even with the about-face of her thinking, she still didn't feel settled. Maybe it's the vodka.

Angela realized the man still stood waiting with his eyebrows up. Shaking her head, she became so resolute, she nearly shook his hand when she agreed. "Okay."

He took her hand and led her to the far edge of the dancing, where the less practiced couples seemed to congregate. He leaned down so she could hear him. "My name's Tucker. What's yours?"

"Angela," she said. She pointed to his hair, "Are you at Howard?"

He laughed, swiping a hand down from the top of his head. "Yeah, I just got here a few weeks ago. Speakin'a which, do you mind if we dance over here, Angela? I'm still learnin'."

"That's fine," she tried to smile. "I really don't know what I'm doing."

"Oh, good! Well, let's see if we can't figure it out together!" he grinned.

As Tucker held her hand, she felt the strength behind how he gently pulled her arm to where they were going. Angela gulped down a smothering heaviness. I've never danced with any man but Michael. She widened her eyes and looked briefly to the side so tears wouldn't fall. And there was Michael, leaning against the wall.

He'd followed them like the spectre of marriage. Tightly holding a Dos Equis in his folded arms, he never dropped his glare. She glared right back, determined to keep herself from falling again.

Smiling a little too brightly up at Tucker, she asked, "So, how do we get this going?"

He stepped up to her, and put his hand behind her back, right at her bra line. Instantly, she started to sweat, and a shocking cross between something very sexual and the warning screams of the damned exploded from deep inside her body. Grasping at her professional training, Angela tightened her face and stood up straight. His other hand took her right.

He leaned in, to speak. "Okay, so a lotta the folks around here do this salsa thing at double-time, but my buddy, Rusty, over there, says you don't hafta prance your feet around so fast. See him over there with that girl?"

Angela looked over and nodded. The couple was, indeed, dancing slower and more methodically, but, arguably, in the same direction as the quick-footed ones.

"So, don't worry about the music for a minute. I'm goin' forward with my left, while you're goin' back with your right," he said, and stepped forward. "Hold your weight on the back leg, and ya almost dip a lil' with the other…There ya go! Now, come back to the center, that's it… Now, you come at me with your other leg, and I'll step back." Straining to hear him, she watched his feet and his hips, and attempted to follow.

Tucker's smooth patience and sweet nature relaxed her, while the definition of his upper body through his t-shirt made her exceedingly nervous. Thusly, the genuineness of her smile blinked like the spotlights, and she tried to focus on their feet.

Angela's head felt wonky, and she kept getting discombobulated with the placement of the inside foot. The flashing lights, and the fact that the music was going much faster than they were made it worse. Her incompetence frustrated her. I can normally pick this stuff up pretty fast... -'I'm a quick study'— flashed through her mind.

Instantly, Angela remembered looking up at Michael's highly interested smile at The Catcall. She was furious with herself for, again, reminiscing. Trying desperately not to cry, Angela halted the dance and leaned up closer to Tucker's ear.

"I'm sorry; I'm having a hard time following right now." She started to step back, when he leaned down.

"Do you wanna go upstairs? It's just regular dancin' up there."

Angela paused, not really wanting to be here at all. But knowing Michael's scowl hovered nearby, hardened her heart enough to shrug, and say, "I'm better at it."

Tucker smiled, and pulled her gently behind him as they made their way through the crowd to the staircase.

The second floor was even more packed than it had been before. Bodies swayed, pressed, and rubbed so much Angela thought her heart would explode a hole in her chest. She almost hoped Michael would come get her. She felt like she was in the desert again, Michael pulling her blissfully into the catacombs of the wild. She needed him nearby to feel okay. She stood on the edge, their arms stretched taut as Tucker tried to walk toward the middle.

He turned back to her, looking slightly concerned. "You okay?"

Angela nodded quickly, feeling very much not okay, but didn't move.

He paused a beat, "Are you thirsty?"

Angela's stunned eyes bolted to his, and her quiet words came out on script. "I could use a little water." It was then that she decided she would be going along with whatever apparitional force seemed to be directing this night.

Tucker was noticeably confused, but nodded encouragingly toward the second flight of stairs. She walked with him up to the bar on the roof.

They stood at the bar, Tucker with an indiscernible beer, and she with her water. It sliced down her grief-dried throat like the claws of a cat.

"So, where ya from, Angela?" Tucker asked her.

She paused, but tried to smile, "Connecticut." As with Michael, she tried to shift the focus back to him, and asked, "What about you?"

"Texas," he grinned. "But I've been all over the place these last twelve years with the Air Force." She smiled but didn't say anything. I wonder where Michael is. Is he dancing with anyone? Ugh! I've got to stop caring. But the feeling that she'd gotten in over her head was a marker long passed.

Tucker waited a few moments, then started to talk nervously again. "Yeah, me and my boys, ya know, Rusty downstairs? And, uh, Joey and T are around here somewhere …yeah, we do basically search and rescue stuff…What about you? What do you do?"

Angela hadn't heard almost anything he'd said. She refocused her attention, her nerves returning with her gaze. "Oh, um, I'm a Vice President at an ad agency in New York."

His eyes opened wide, "No kiddin'? Well, good for you!"

She smiled back warmly, "Thanks."

"So, college girl, huh?"

She nodded, smiling, but didn't press the conversation. After several seconds, Tucker spoke up.

"Well, hey, if you can do all that, you can pick this up," he goaded. He dipped up his eyebrows sweetly, "You wanna try to dance on level 2? We can take it slow."

Her heart regained its speed. But when yet another flashback of Princess Aurora blindly following the green light through the stone staircase came to mind, she slowly took his offered hand. This night seemed overwhelmingly orchestrated, and she followed him downstairs in a trance of her own.

Michael had been standing at the top of the staircase as nonchalantly as a glaring guard dog could. As they moved to leave the roof, he went down ahead of them and stood off to the side.

Again, Tucker walked ahead of Angela and their arms stretched, but this time, she followed him onto the dance floor.

Tucker smiled down at her as he got up close. He reached in to hold the top of her hips, and leaned down, "Is this okay?"

Terrified, she nodded, and her whole core tightened as she slid her hands up his arms. Again, she remembered doing the same to Michael, and closed her eyes.

Tucker synched his hips to the provocative beat, and even with the couple inches of space he left between them, Angela felt nothing but fire.