Lyric

It was the music that grabbed her; she did not understand the lyrics. She did not speak Spanish.
She danced to the song and felt its meaning in her bones, her muscles, her skin.
She felt him against her, a stranger. They did not speak, because neither spoke very much of the language of the other. Yet, she felt at peace as he held her body and bent and moved her.
Somehow, without really speaking, she trusted him. She did not know what was on his mind, but she trusted him.
It may have been the way he looked at her, but a look can be misunderstood so easily.
It must have been the way he held her and led her, with a care that was at the same time meticulous and measured, yet smooth and fluid.
He did not pull her or push her as they moved, but she knew which way he wanted her to move.
He did not squeeze her. His hands grazed her skin and the cloth of her swaying dress, but softly.
When the song was about to end, his arms around her waist tightened a bit, and he lowered her, looking into her eyes.

Then, suddenly, the song was over, the music swelled and stopped. Her back and neck still arched, she realized that he had never taken his eyes from hers.
As he raised her to standing, he smiled, and showed a glimpse of shyness - as if he did not know what would happen next any more than she did.
(And she had thought him so confident; he was unsure of what she was feeling or thinking, she realized.)
He paused, and started to speak, but stopped – only a small sound escaped his mouth.
He never took his eyes from hers, and his left hand was still holding her waist.
Her arms were limp at her sides and she was completely at ease in her body, but underneath her ribs her heart was pumping quickly from the movement of the dance – and the anticipation of this moment.
He looked at her as if to ask a question, and both of them knew the question (and the answer) without having to understand a common spoken language.
He kissed her.
He walked away from the dance floor.

She went home and began listening to a thousand songs online.
She knew that one way or another, she would recall the few lyrics she could grab from the air of that night, and find a file of the song she had dance to with this man.
Finally, she found it.
It was a well-known song, she learned.
It had been recorded by many artists, each with a different style.
Yet the message was the same.

The song title translated to “I have to forget.”
She realized that sometimes, love is painful, moments of love are filled with a sting that comes from regret, perhaps, or the knowledge that this pleasure will only last a moment and no longer.
Often, you wish to forget a painful memory, or the face and voice and name of a person who shattered your love.
She did not wish to forget the dance with the man, or the man himself.
In fact, she knew that she would never forget these feelings (the smell of his skin, the warmth of his body, the strength of his hands, the burning hazel of his eyes, the taste of his mouth), or the rhythm of this song, no matter how many years might flow under her feet.
She did not want to ever, ever forget.
But, a part of her heart sent a message to her: Yes, you will have to forget this, because it will be unbearably painful, this feeling of regret, this knowing that you shared a night and a dance and a kiss with someone who was lost to you forever.

Forget.
She did not know his name. She did not know where he lived. And if she could find him, what would they say to each other? Their shared language was only a few words at best.

But she knew she would not forget