Eva Peron’s crisp, lime green dress snapped as our tango drew to the inevitable grand finale. The heat was oppressive, the sun relentless, but Evita never missed a step. She wore a delicate white flower above her right ear, a splendid contrast to her bronze skin and the brightness of her dress. “You are still quite the dancer, Señor Redd,” she said with a smile. I grinned back, the cadence of our dance escalating with the heat of the moment.
Yes, I thought, indeed I am.
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