My mom says that bachata dancing is for barrio bachelors that are looking to grind with ladies without taking them on a date and clearly I don’t wan’t that. Or do I?

“Where are we going?” My best friend, Brenda asks. She plays with the seatbelt in her passenger seat.

The night air smells of fried plantains and ground beef as we pass a vibrant food truck with a line that goes around the block.

I smile at Brenda as I pull into the parking lot of the Bachata Magic night club in downtown Providence.

“Ana!” She says, eyes glued to her window. “I thought your mom told you not to come here. That it’s low class men blah blah blah”

“Isn’t it time for me to finally live my life the way I want to?” I ask putting the car into park and turning it off. “I went to uppity ass Brown to please her. I became a lawyer to please her. I live at home even though I’m almost thirty to please her.”

“Good points! Let’s hop to it!” Brenda opens the car door and skips through the sea of vehicles. Salsa music is blasting from the club, couples are making out on every corner, and rowdy groups of friends laugh and make jokes.

I follow her to the entrance where a tall, buff bouncer with sunglasses checks our IDs before allowing us in.

The club is dark. Small round tables surround the dance floor and are full. Brenda and I make our way to the bar.

“No wonder you’re wearing a tight ass dress,” Brenda says squeezing in between two sets of friends at a bar: group of women taking selfies to our left and a group of men drinking presidente beers to our right.

I squeeze in next to her. It is hard to hear over the music. The smell inside the club is of strong men’s cologne intermingled with sweat.

The song changes to a bachata beat. I feel a strong hand around my waist.

“Will you give me this dance?” The man asks in Spanish. Before I see him, I smell him. Soap and after shave. I feel him. His hand is firm, but respectful placed.

I nod and he leads me to dance floor. I see his tall, muscular frame from behind. His clean fade, nice slacks, and slightly too tight shirt which usually I find cringe, but not on this man. I pray his face isn’t hideous when he turns around. But with the excitement of finally being on the dance floor, maybe I won’t care either way.

He turns to face me, brings me as close as two people can be while clothed, and we start our three-step movements front and back and left and right. His movements are small, but assertive. We don’t sashay across the dance floor like other flaunty couples. He keeps us in the same three-foot square.

“You’re the most beautiful woman here,” he leans in and whispers in beautifully broken English. His minty breath caresses my ear. He sounds like a trip back home to the Caribbean and is very easy on the eyes.

I nod not knowing what to say. Do I compliment him back? Nah. Too thirsty. I settle on a simple, classy “Thank you.”

He pulls me closer to him, squeezes me tight. I close my eyes as we dance in unison to the solo guitar portion of the song. I don’t want this moment to end.