the night of the match: el partido y tu ojos de cielo

Songs and film tell the epic nights ravelled around a match, this memory is about one match not so long a time ago, a match where I danced a night and a storm away.
Buenos Aires was charged with the expectations of the match to come, the spring afternoon got sucked into the night where Argentina had to fight to gain its place into the championship. The town quickly emptied in the evening and we all hardly noticed the thick and heavy clouds. When the wind started to sweep the deserted streets, I was already in the guest house. I lied down to recover a bit of energy for a night out at the milonga, I did not even remove my high heel pink and red shoes, feeling like a doll waiting to go down to his ball. I did not watch the match and in a rave-like siesta,  I started to hear far away all the forgotten windows clattering in the tension of the match. Baires was holding his breath and in this place of passion sweat and blood, the clouds must have sucked up the electricity, the atmosphere charged with emotions and in the middle of silenced sighs of hope and fear , of beers waiting to be opened, of cries and relief. The match ended and as to reply instantaneously the clouds burst open , all the relief materialised in streams of water pouring down the streets , all the souls sweat together and fell back in town. I took a taxi and went to the milonga , the taxi driver told me the result and i sighed too thinking of a happy smile going down from the bus uttering  a "maybe I'll come to the milonga tonight, after the match" half door,
and then with my doll shoes, a springtime flower shirt tied below my breast and my heart to give, I entered the milonga. And it was the most beautiful tango night I have ever danced, a night suspended between my furtive glances at the door and the clock,  and my eyes closed while I abandoned to the dancers, letting my legs learn the earth and the ground. I danced and danced , light as plume and as heavy as the promise of maybe not love but surely not dream,  of lips to encounter of smiles to change and eyes to be close , of softness imagined between two hands and two faces, between the sky and the ground, a heart offered  for the slaughter and the party and the feet rooted to the ground. The ripening pleasure of the body mingled with the expectation that is not yet a desire for a smile that was not turning up yet. But still I was there and I danced , because every promise of love can only be danced, because the swirl of my skirt could be the festoon welcoming those eyes when they would come in. I cannot imagine another way of explaining what tango is if not this sweet mixture of a hope sure to be fulfilled and that fear that already knows. Every step in the ballroom, every smile exchanged, your body gets lighter and your heart is heavier. On and on you cannot ever stop to feel, embrace and wait . Live suspended in a dream. And I have never danced again any better than that night, where my life was leading me through steps my sweet dancer had taught me that afternoon. Never my body had been that supple to listen and respond, my legs so long to round up like silk. Never I had so glown when closing my eyes and being seen.
The night closed out on tu ojos de cielo and the cumparsita.
The sky was clear again, the rain had gone. I went walking back to the guesthouse, the dream had evaporated, and the world had been washed new... the dreams of the night before trickled away in the gutters ...i was not in the least disappointed