Merengue Heat | Calor de Merengue
"A Dominican festival turns steamy when two dancers compete for the crown—and for each other"
Merengue Heat
Calor de Merengue
The festival was packed—thousands of people swaying to the beat, but I only had eyes for her.
"So you're my competition," she said, sizing me up. "Esperaba más." I expected more.
"Don't worry. I'll exceed your expectations."
"Big talk for a diaspora kid." She smirked. "When's the last time you danced in Santo Domingo?"
"Tonight. When I win."
Her name was Yamilet, and she'd won this competition three years running. I was the upstart from New York, the Dominican-American who dared to enter sacred territory.
"The judges like tradition," she warned. "Not whatever fusion you're bringing."
"Merengue is about innovation. It always has been."
"Merengue is about respect." She stepped closer, her perfume hitting me like a wave. "Can you show respect?"
"Can you show me what you want respected?"
The preliminary rounds kept us apart, but I watched her every chance I could. She moved like water over rocks—smooth, inevitable, powerful. Every hip roll was precision, every turn was perfection.
And she watched me too. I caught her eyes finding mine across the dance floor, narrowing with something that might have been rivalry or something else entirely.
"You're good," she admitted between rounds. "Better than I expected."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's a warning." She leaned in. "I don't lose. Ever."
"There's a first time for everything."
We both made the finals. Of course we did.
The judges announced the final twist: partners would be assigned randomly. The crowd gasped when my number matched hers.
"Destino," someone muttered. Destiny.
"Coincidence," Yamilet said, but her eyes burned into mine. "Don't mess this up."
"Shouldn't I be telling you that?"
"You're following my lead."
"In your dreams."
The music started—traditional merengue, fast and fierce—and we stopped fighting.
Her body against mine was electric. Every step became a conversation, every turn a negotiation. She pushed; I pulled. I led; she reclaimed.
"You're better than I thought," she breathed.
"So are you."
"Don't get distracted."
"Too late."
We moved through the routine, but something was different. The competition faded. The crowd faded. It was just us, two bodies speaking a language older than words.
We won. Joint first place—a decision that had the traditionalists arguing but the crowd cheering.
"A tie," she said backstage. "Insulting."
"Or perfect." I backed her against the wall. "Neither of us loses."
"I wanted to beat you."
"You still can." My hand found her hip. "Different competition."
"What are you suggesting?"
"Come to my hotel. Dance with me without an audience. See who really wins."
She came.
We danced in my hotel room—no music, just the rhythm we created together. Dancing became touching, touching became kissing, kissing became something that made dancing seem tame.
"I still don't like you," she gasped as I lifted her onto the dresser.
"Liar."
"Okay, I like you." She pulled me closer. "I hate that I like you."
"Use that energy."
She did. All night.
"So who won?" she asked at dawn, tangled in hotel sheets.
"Both of us." I kissed her shoulder. "Again."
"You're impossible."
"And you're coming back to New York with me."
"I never said that."
"You haven't said no either."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I have a studio here. Students. A life."
"So we figure it out. Back and forth. Two cities."
"That's crazy."
"So is loving someone you just met."
"Love?" She turned to look at me. "We've known each other twelve hours."
"The competition was three days. The tension was longer." I traced her face. "I've been watching your videos for years, Yamilet. Learning from you. You're the reason I dance the way I do."
"You learned from me?"
"You're a legend. Of course I did."
She smiled—the first real smile I'd seen from her. "Then consider this advanced instruction."
She kissed me again, and the lesson continued well past checkout.
We made it work—New York and Santo Domingo, two studios, one love. Rivals became partners. Competition became collaboration.
"Ready for the rematch?" she asked the next year, as we prepared for the same festival.
"This time, let's win separately."
"And then come together after?"
"Exactly."
We did—first and second, her above me by half a point. The competition was fierce.
The celebration was fiercer.
Merengue heat—hot enough to burn, sweet enough to savor.