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I didn't want to attend that damned bullfight, but my girlfriends finally persuaded 
me, seeing as though I had grown weary of the lone traveler routine, continually
taking the path of opposition.

So, at three pm, I found myself walking into that sandy arena on that deceivingly 
sunny day.

I spotted the bull, so beautiful he was, and gazed into those big, brown eyes; for 
a moment, just a moment, he appeared to stare back at me.

The matador was as smooth as his red and black velvet jacket, elegant as his 
black bow tie, and for a moment, just a moment, I was infatuated by his dark skin 
and straight white teeth, especially when he smiled and kissed me softly on my 
tiny hand.

Many people, mostly visitors from other lands, applauded him, praised him for 
his bravery as he taunted the bull with his fiery, red cloak.

But then, how was this animal to understand his fate?

Perhaps his instincts informed him that he was trapped, that forcibly, he was 
compelled to defend himself.  Perhaps.

And he did.

Brutally beaten, I observed as he lay defenseless, body consumed by sand, 
sides heaving while the matador proudly raised his hand to accommodate the 
vigorous spectators; my friends cheered along with the crowd.


I cried.



Note:  La Fiesta Brava is Spanish for "the brave festival."






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