I’m having a bachata kind of a Saturday morning. It’s cold outside and still. Quiet in the moments before the sky releases. Inside, clothes cover the floor, books and CDs and lipsticks and bracelets are randomly arranged on the dresser, and I’m sitting in my underwear, shivering a little with my wet hair, but still, here I am. I’ve made it to this moment, the tender Saturday morning.
A coquette really, this one she is, and the most complicated of the seven sisters. You turn over in bed and open your eyes one morning, and she’s lying next to you, alive and rosy in all her youthful glory. She steps out of sleep easily, half-nude and charming. Breezing past a slight recollection of yesterday, she wraps herself in the folds of today and casts a loving glance your way, waiting for you to catch up.
And she always waits for you. Seemingly unconcerned with anything but herself, she knows exactly what she’s doing. Watch her close, and you’ll find her eye — with its perfectly curled lashes — on you often, luring you in ever so slightly with each glance.
Small exchanges like this one, easy laughs and light movement throughout the day exhaust her slowly, and she grows smaller and smaller, fainting away like a vision. And finally, poof! She’s gone. But push your windows open and look up, and you’ll find her again right there — transformed, a woman now, with all her latent passions in full bloom. Coquettish still but more aware and in control of herself. Swift as lightning, she’s with you everywhere you go. Watch her now peeking at you over a cocktail glass, perched on the fifth cord of the Spanish guitar, glimmering in the eye of a man. Spinning and spinning over and over again at his command, drawing him and you further away from the dance floor and from the familiarity of her sisters, who treasure daylight and routine.
But she, she’s an animal, she’s wild and wildly elusive. She hops from week to week, sealing each one with a kiss, and then she’s off again for her beauty sleep. (Her sister Sunday peers in shyly then, tips the door open just a crack and steps in soundlessly, with her signature mop in hand.)
So, as I was saying, I’m having a bachata Saturday morning. El Torito, Yoskar Sarante, Zacarias Frerreira — the ultimate trio. Love them all. And I love bachata. It’s beautiful, subtle and tender. Its masters handle it with care. Bachata is a heart that has been closely watched, beat after beat transcripted. It’s alive.
I leave you with my favorite beats: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ksJoI4md410
May the love be with you.