The Last Corrida
She watched the falling leaves through the window. Autumn came early this year; once outside, her shiny shoes would rob their final rustle.
Inside the closet, she searched for the perfect grey, to melt her into the clouds, into the dust.
Rusty fall tones never looked good on her. Her eyes closed as she stroked the softness of the wool flannel. Its sensual warmth brought a quiver in her throat.
Her hands cupped her neck, trying to still its pulse.
She opened a drawer. A tangled rainbow of scarves cascaded from the dresser. She let them fall.
Tucked in a corner, wearing her perfume of dusty dead roses, the one he loved, was the red scarf. “My love on your swan-neck,” he said while tying it with a flourish, before the corrida. She buried her face in the cold silk and breathed in its color, its heat when the estoque met its mark and the beast kneeled on the other side of the barrera. Leaning over, she stretched her hand—the beast’s blood, warm beneath her hand; the bristle of hair; muscles; the angry fear in its eyes. The noise, the cheers, the anticipation, the rush.
It was his turn next. The muleta fluttered.
A barely formed bead of blood lingered at her mouth as she unclenched her teeth. She wiped it clean. Tightened the scarf once. Again. She sank on her knees. Her tears fell on the red mirrored by the floor. The same red that stained his white shirt.