It takes two to tango.

I hear the steady clicks of the track of the tank, the footsteps of my partner, setting the stage for my performance.

Click. Inhale. Click. Exhale. Click. Inhale. Click. Exhale. Click. Inhale. Click. Exhale.

I pull my shoulders back, chin up, chest out. I assume the position of my pride, my feet planted firmly on the ground. I can feel the blood pulsing through my veins, and the adrenaline building up in my body. My own pulse beats through my ears, drowning out the sounds of the day. I tightly grip a plastic bag in each hand, props for the show.

My partner approaches slowly, still clicking, still keeping the time, like some strange metronome. As it comes closer, I can feel my heart start to beat out of my chest.

Thump. Click. Inhale. Thump. Click. Exhale.

I have been waiting for this moment, training for this moment. I can't let my practice go to waste, and I can't disappoint my audience. I know this will be a performance none of us will forget.

And just like that, our tango begins.

My partner glides toward me, then stops. We have a moment - is it awkward? Is it passionate? The audience will never know, but I can feel the tension between us, like every molecule in my being is connected to every molecule in my cold opponent's structure by some taut barbed wire, ready to snap at any moment, but too strong to actually break. Suddenly, our connection is broken by a sudden movement.

I follow its lead - I move right when my partner does. I gracefully mimic its every move, like a gazelle on hot coals. My direction changes to left when my partner turns that direction. We continue on in this game, back and forth, metal and flesh, right and wrong. My feet hit the pavement hard,

I continue clutching my bags, swinging them around my body. Their fluid motion around my waist gives me a momentary skirt, appropriately feminizing me in this dance. I try to exercise my masculinity, but my partner and I both know its sheer size dominates me, makes me follow, leads me.

For a moment, I feel a rush of vulnerability. For a moment, I am the lesser of the two dancers. For a moment, I am a small woman in a man’s hands.

I feel alone, sitting on some distant stage, waiting for this man to come cut my clothes off with a single pair of scissors. I am some lonely female with no future, no control, no power. I am a cog who cannot function on its own. The machine runs me. Cuts me.

Snip. Inhale. Snip. Exhale. Snip. Inhale. Snip. Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Our dance ends abruptly. Puzzled, I stare at my partner. Did we really just stop? Is our physical conversation finished?

With the blood still pumping furiously in my system, I lightly leap onto my partner, scaling its crevices until I reach the top, its skin becoming colder with every reach of my hand. Its rigid edges are surprising for a partner of such caliber. I feel my flesh against its hard shell, bags still in hand, ready for a deposit.

I’d played this moment over in my head a thousand times, rehearsed it to perfection, but nothing could have prepared me for the fearful eyes that greeted me at the top of this cold, metallic mountain.

After all, they say it takes two to tango.