Free Adventures of a Salsa Goddess by JoAnn Hornak

But I’d also been hoping he would dip me again! I couldn’t get him or that dip out of my mind. Really, clubs should have warnings posted.
    Since I had a few hours to kill before meeting Lessie, I decided to take a walk along Lake Michigan, which I’d only seen from the eighteenth-floor patio of my apartment. Fifteen minutes later, I was walking out onto Bradford Beach. Two bored lifeguards in red suits perched high above me, their megaphones hanging unused on the sides of their chairs. No one was in the water, but a dozen sun worshippers were scattered about, soaking up the early June rays on beach towels and lawn chairs. The sand felt cool and moist on my feet as I kicked off my sandals and walked to the water’s edge.
    Elaine’s executive assistant, Sally, who had an aunt and uncle who lived in Wisconsin, had mentioned a couple of weeks ago that one of Milwaukee’s best features was its lakefront. My response had been, “It’s on a lake? What lake?” picturing one of the small lakes that dotted northern New York where you could swim from one end to the other without getting winded. Lake Michigan looked as vast as an ocean. I stuck my big toe in and pulled it right back out.
    “It doesn’t warm up until August.”
    Turning to the voice, I saw a tanned face, primary blue-colored eyes, and a body that looked like a Michelangelo sculpture come to life.
    “Hi, I’m Zack,” he said, holding out his hand.
    Men this good-looking shouldn’t be allowed to roam free. They should be on display in special stores with viewings by appointment only. I tore my eyes away from his face to do the oh-so-subtle left ring finger reconnaissance. No wedding ring and no tan line. Wow, things were suddenly looking up in ... Where was I again? Oh yeah, Milwaukee.
    “No, I’m not married,” he said.
    Whenever I’m embarrassed, my knees, chest, and face, in that order, turn a lollipop red that gives most people the impression that I’m having a seizure that requires emergency medical attention.
    Zack and I spent the next hour and a half together, the conversation flowing effortlessly as we walked along the beach and eventually meandered over to a picnic table under a big oak tree. It was perfect. He was perfect. We were perfect.
    Except for one thing.
    “Why didn’t he ask for my number?” I asked Lessie later. The two of us were seated in prime second-row seats behind the Brewers’ dugout at Miller Park stadium—seventy-fifty dollars a pop, compliments of Tres Chic .
    Taking a big unladylike swig of a Milwaukee brew, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Okay, I was feeling sorry for myself. I couldn’t help but picture my inevitable fate: a hardened woman who hung out in dark, smoky bars, drinking bourbon or scotch and chain smoking Marlboros, hoping some man, any man, would buy me a drink and take me home for the night.
    “His good-bye hung in the air until it was sucked out to sea, across the waves, never to be heard again,” I continued, knowing I’d lapsed into one of my ridiculous moods.
    Lessie sighed and crossed her arms. “Why didn’t you just offer him your number or—here’s a crazy idea—ask for his?”
    “Have you lost your mind?” I demanded. “Let me say just six words: He’s Just Not That Into You .”
    “Don’t tell me you’re one of those women,” groaned Lessie, as she slapped her hands on her thighs. Lessie’s baseball game attire, a red sleeveless T-shirt and ultra-short blue jean shorts did double duty, showing off every muscle in her toned arms and thighs. “You don’t see men reading self-help books about how to catch a woman or how to know when a woman isn’t interested.”
    “That’s because they don’t have to!” I argued. “They’re the ones doing all the pursuing, or at least they should be. It may be the twenty-first century, but men still want to club women over our heads, drag us into their caves, and have their way with us.”
    “What kind of guys were you