In response to his glancing eyes that pause here and there, then catch and hold hers and take in the dance floor, she nods her head, adjusts a strap on a gilded stiletto, sets aside her wine glass and iPhone, and rises from her table, smooths her dress, and awaits his imminent arrival. He smiles, and offers his hand. They embrace, motionless, alert for the next musical phrase, and then dip into a long salida. Their ensuing connection, perfectly synchronized with the mellifluous interplay of bandoneon, violin and piano, created with selfless panache by a tiny orchestra back in the corner, becomes a conversation that touches, within minutes, on their neglected needs, and points directly towards fulfillment, practical or otherwise. Now and again, leading her into ochos cortados, he looks into her eyes and sees there a reflection of his own acquiescence to paths less traveled. Their conversation, expressed as an intimate dance harnessed to a timeless melody, bypasses the trips and falls of mere words, and when the song ends, and they embrace for a long moment and then return to their little tables and wine glasses, they are enriched beyond measure. He is slow to resume his placid scan of eager eyes, while she twirls her wineglass and considers her options.