It was the last tango lesson I would be attending at this studio. My time here would soon be over. I found the group lessons too slow and my progress was stagnant. This opinion was shared by some of the other participants there. In a short while, I would probably never see these friends again. But that’s just what happens in life. People fade in and out, and connections will wither over time.

We talked a bit about our departure from this studio and perhaps looking for somewhere else to learn, as we made our way out into the parking lot. I held the door open for her as we stepped into the dark and chilly night. She was about the same age as my mother.

“... And you can see that all the good people never stay here. They all go somewhere else,” she said.

“Yeah, the turnover for this place is too high. I would guess they are having financial difficulties running this place the way they are doing now,” I said.

“Yeah, there was J who was pretty good, who left. And that M, she didn’t stay long. There’s no point in them going to a place like this.”

“If you want to keep improving, and you’re not getting it here, it’s time to find somewhere else.”

“I like watching good dancers dance. Some people are decent here, like R’s sister. My husband was pretty good too.”

There were a bunch of middle aged ladies who came as singles to the lessons. It was not my business to ask them of their family background. However, I knew this woman liked to talk about her children (roughly my age), but had never mentioned her husband before.

“Oh. Why don’t you come dancing with him?” I asked, postulating that maybe he was at a more advanced level, and let his wife practice the easier steps on her own.

“He passed away. Eight years ago. From throat cancer.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” I dipped my head slightly in apology.

She shifted her gaze off me, to the side and into the distance. “He battled it for seven years. It was unexpected. He used to love dancing. He would practice his moves around the house, whenever he had the opportunity. Standing in front of a barbecue, he would work on his latin moves, waiting for the food to cook. He was pretty good too. I never really shared in his passion at the time. I think I was too short for him.”

She looked over at me. “How tall are you?”

“Six foot.”

“You’re six? Yes, I think he was around the same height. I was probably too short to be a good dance partner with him. So he would go out and dance on his own. Oh he loved it. I remember we did do the Viennese waltz together, back in ’83.”

She remembered the exact year?

“We were in Europe, and we learned the Viennese waltz. I had a lot of fun.” After a pause, she moved onto another topic. I think it was about Dancing With The Stars.

So fifteen years after her husband fell ill with throat cancer, and eight years after his death, she continued to live his passion. Something that she had not pursued when he was still around and active. That must be what got her into dancing in the first place then.

I could tell she loved him deeply, and probably still did. It was a tragic story with an unfortunate loss and I was deeply moved. Perhaps it was because it came from someone I knew personally.

We wound down our conversation and said goodbye. The story weighed heavily on my mind. I hope I don’t run into such misfortune in my lifetime. I guess that person is less likely to fade from memory when they are really gone.