The Matador

He is the bull.

He can feel its damp matted fur, bloodied with maroon clumps of failure. He can hear the vessels bursting in its maize colored eyes, by now but mere slits. He smells its desperation; the bull’s snorts become more rugged, its hoofs scrape more purposefully along the smashed dirt in the ring. The color seems to him that of sickness-- a washed out yellow that verges on tan, a tan that reminds him of the youthful skin his mother once wore with pride.

Its horns excite the crowd. They love the dull shine and blunted points. They can’t impale him, but that doesn’t mean they won’t. They are gouged and cracked and show their age-- how wise a bull to end up here. Of course, the bull was born into this. This ring has surely haunted its dreams as it has the matador’s.

Rings are binding. They are eternal. A good ring is seamlessly joined, impressively slick and smooth. To bind, two rings are needed, but here, in this circular hell, one suffices.

The matador feels the thick thumping of his heart, exerting so much force as to keep him in one spot. He feels a small breeze grace his cheeks--un espiritu, a spirit saying goodbye. He feels his cape ruffle now, black and gold, glinting in the afternoon sun. He feels the cold sweat clinging to the back of his neck. He feels the weight of all the baubles and embellishments he wore like spoils of war. Their necessity is being challenged now, as the bull roars and the crowd silences.

He charges.