The sound of the fan echoed in the silent room, soon mixing with feet hitting the wooden floor. It was warm this particular summer, the windows were closed to keep the cool in, and Art was cursing himself mentally. This was a real challenge.

The thirty-two years old man wanted to go back two months ago, when the director of the vacation resort asked him to be a dance instructor. He should have said no — for the fact that no one cared for dancing with this heat.

The young ones wanted to swim, go on parties, drink; older ones wanted to stay under the sun, have wine and do bingo.

Yes — so he should have been alone, paid to do nothing for two months. Nice. Until someone signed down for this class, and broke his dream of a peaceful summer.

His blue eyes squinted as he looked at you; the one and only person applying to learn mambo from him. You were— a catastrophic newbie, having no idea where and when to move your feet, body way too straight, no rhythm whatsoever. He had a lot of job to do, he knew it.

The sound of Hungry Eyes by Eric Carmen resonated around the dance room, your body moving to the pop rock music; something that made Art wince to himself. He quickly walked to you. “We need to work on your position. Hands up. Lock your arms.”

He grabbed one of your hand, the other resting against your ribs with a feather-like touch.

His feet moved with yours, body molding like you both belonged in the same space. Art’s eyes kept locked in yours, even as he began to mumble under his breath and suddenly stopped you. “No, stop it. Look up.” he lifted your arms up, forming a circle.

“I told you before. This,” his arms lifted to join yours, “is my dance space. And this is your dance space. You don’t come into mine, I don’t come into yours. Got it?” he finished, his finger brushing against your chin to tilt your head up.