“Find me on Facebook,” she says, and her eyes show real concern. Real feeling.

Before, when I tried to say goodbye, she was busy talking to one of the big-name instructors. I can’t fault her for that, it was a valuable moment. I got a hug and a name and that was enough. She caught me again outside and joined me for a cigarette, but now the taxi arrives and we are cut short.

Earlier she had complained about the men at the festival. “They stand around doing nothing. They won’t ask me to dance.” I think I know why. I’ve never been refused so often. She doesn’t understand why and neither do I. One girl even quit on me in the middle of a dance, the greatest insult of the social dance scene. Another resorted to lies. “My foot hurts,” but it’s fine for the next guy. After two and a half years I can’t be that bad.

She doesn’t think so. Together we danced very well. She is tall and her body moves in wild waves, maybe too wild for kizomba. I control the dance, I think, but sometimes I feel like I’m carried along in her whirlwind. There are moves she follows and moves she won’t. But I think we must look good. “You should dance closer to the stage, so people can see you.” She wants me to show off, and it reassures me.

If not for the taxi we could have finished our cigarette and our conversation. But I can’t walk two kilometers to the boat tonight. It’s too late for that.

Back at the marina I leave the taxi and disappear into the fog. The pier is silent but for the creaking of boats and a strange musical horn. The world glows orange and white with the lights. Their lines criss-cross the lines of the rigging, providing frames and perspectives everywhere. It is a magical moment.

The boat has WiFi and despite her awful handwriting, Facebook helps me find her. “That’s not an ‘l’,” says Facebook, “Rukavishnikova is spelled with a ‘k’. Duh.”