Normally, Martha sheds her work shoes as soon as she gets home from, er, work. Last night, she didn't. She was hurrying around the kitchen on clunky one-inch heels, and this is what it sounded like, heels against tile:
Clunk, clunk clunk, clunk, turn, clunk clunk clunk, turn back, clunk clunk clunk, clunk, clunk clunk . . .
"You sound like one of those Spanish dancers," I told her. "What's the name of that dance? I can't remember offhand."
"The Flamingo?" she said.
"Flamenco!" I cried triumphantly. And then I started to laugh. And she started to laugh. The Flamingo, for cripes sake.
I think, for St. Valentine's Day, I'll sign her up for Flamingo dance lessons. Who knows—maybe they'll teach her the tangle and the sambo too.