The Matador The bond between us had become distorted during the short time we dated. It started off heavily but finished as footsteps carefully treading across the ground, afraid to wake up the beast.

She called me late one evening after returning from a weekend trip back home. The conversation began slowly and built to a wild stampede. She told me that she cheated on me while she was away. It was as blunt as that, except for a contrived remorse that carried poorly over the telephone. This was her charge.

And I pulled the cape away.

She ran right by, stopped, and turned around. There was confusion in her voice.

She charged again.

Up until that point I was done with the eristic antagonism in her character. But now I saw some kind of unusual honesty in her that I’d never seen before. My desire was without logic. I wanted to run from her and yet I didn’t want her to run from me. By the time the conversation ended, I realized that the honesty I saw was circumstantial. The initial crime was much more piercing.

I set the cape down and walked away, and still she charged, even when I was no longer in her range.  ¶ 9:18 PM