That evening I went dancing. Old men, as always, approach me, telling me strange things, and taking my hand and timidly touching the inside of my palm. Old men, who could behave like gentlemen, behave like timid adolescents.
A group dance, similar to a hora, starts and I join. An old man enters the circle, and he holds my left hand.
Soon, coming from the left, I smell urine. He dances surprisingly well, while I struggle with the steps. After a while, there is no more hand-holding, though we continue dancing. The smell doesn’t go away. At some stage I bring my hand towards the face and just in time, I realize that my hand smells of stale urine. Yuuk!! I go and wash meticulously and then re-enter the circle at another spot, watching the same old man, dancing graciously. And you know what? In his own way, he is cute. Old, he enjoys life. He holds somebody else’s obviously grimacing. I watch his steps. He knows the the coreography for each tune and never misses a step. Incontinent and talented. And so old!
eachword-eachday 