41 hour transcontinental travel morphed into a procession with unnecessarily large luggage in an accurately inventoried town. The parade ended at an apartment under construction, which dispensed dust particles that settled on our clammy skin, and blisters were relieved, as trappings were ungripped. The flat awaited on the eighth story, no elevator. The climb to the top was revitalizing, every step up released endorphins for a second wind; needed for an immediate outing to the plaza.
We sat attentively waiting for the bullfight to begin; a curtain of sound decorated the inconspicuous plaza. Trumpets muted conversations and wine was gulped from leather pouches. The dryness and burning of my eyes made it difficult to focus on the individuality of the bodies present; instead they appeared as one solid mass, like those drawn in comic strips. The unslept hours slowly taxed my appendages and the bodily aches monopolized my mode of being.
The torero strut out and waved at the rowdy crowd. The ornaments on his suit dazzled under the sun’s rays fueling cheers. My eyelids grew heavy and my eyes crossed in defiance. I stood up, quickly to maintain my presence and refuel my lungs, but upon taking my place, the torero was replaced by another. I surrendered to myself, and closed my eyes.