Every week, my salsa class partner’s hand on my waist moved slightly lower. In the first week, it was centered on my back; by the second week, it was on my waist; by the third week, it was two fingers below my waist. I said nothing—I wasn’t even uncomfortable. In the fourth week, the distance he pulled me in changed. I heard his breathing. Even after the music ended, he didn’t immediately remove his hand. In the fifth week, the instructor stopped the class and pointed to the two of us—in front of everyone.