& that's the way life goes

Writing Exercise 17: No bull

You are a matador visiting LA from Spain

Where I come from, women…

love the fact that I’m a matador, it is supposed to give me a sense of pride and family heritage. But tonight, oh tonight I locked eyes with a pretty woman sitting next to me at the bar. She is wearing white tennis shoes with her black skirt and tight knit pink top. Her curly brown hairs is pulled into a loose pony tail with tendrils falling around her face. He has to restrain himself from reaching a hand out to touch them and tuck them behind her ear. He tried to start a conversation with her, but all he got out of it was that she was a waitress at the restaurant down the street and she had just finished her shift. She shunned him after he boldly told her he was a matador. He hadn’t been expecting this kind of response, back in his country she would have been swooning at his feet. What was with these American women? She spoke to the bar tender in Spanish, asking for another drink. When he brought it I held out my hand so I could pay for it. She thanked me in Spanish and kept her eyes trained on the television above the many rows of liquor bottles. I tried once again to make conversation, but she cut me off telling me she didn’t date animal killers. I was shocked, I had never had that reaction before. I tapped her on the shoulder asking for further explanation and something must have snapped. She went into a tirade about how I was proud to have murder in my title. She alternated between English and Spanish, but so fast that I couldn’t catch all the insults. Out of breath she stopped, finished her drink and left. I sat there alone, with the bartender sending me sympathy glances, and I couldn’t wait to get back on a plane to Spain, where the women made sense.

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