He walked into the room. Smoke surrounded the shroud of despair he attempted to ignore. He was young and beautiful. He told himself. His journey was predetermined.
No-one noticed the boy's arrival, focused on their spells of beauty: they too were invulnerable, invincible. The pal of deceit surrounded them too.
His lips, not mine. His lips, not mine. The boy kissed him again. he watched, envying their lovemaking. He was not young enough, he did not dance enough, he had inhaled the smoke.
Boys dancing, matadors, arching around each other. elegantly. the audience of their self-esteem wild, applauding. Someone throws a mantilla, another a silk scarf: "notice us too, allow us to bear you on our shoulders of collective victory: we are the army of lovers, we are the young, we are the undefeated."
The ballet slippers are carefully removed; the glorious brazen cerise and cold cape proudly flaring over the foot of the bed. No ears of conquest; no matador's honour sausages. The applause. The adulation.
He had noticed me. I had chosen to sit too long: the careful, distant observer. I wanted to watch while being noticed. the death dance is fought in the arena, a public spectacle of envied vulgarity. On the grandstand, swallowing the dust, vicariously slaughtering the black beast, he sat. The hero, hiding in his seat, clapping politely, glancing obliquely at him, the master slayer: the matador.
Their bodies instinctively swayed to the same rhythm, understanding the dance of death.
"Never look him in the eyes, he will sense your fear. You are the master. Control him with your body, lure him with your poise. you have to win the audience. You are fighting for them".
A solemn oath sworn communally from before our birth: "never let the wounded display their defeat in public. he must be killed."
A fan flutters briefly. She watches them from inside herself. Each careful brow-lock disguises her glance. She is too far removed to join emotions with the flight.
Patiently she awaits the victor. She too will slaughter. A pointed, firm ankle moves the scarlet folds aside. Her progress is definite. She understands this battle. He is for her.
Again the massive roar, another thrust forward, another encircling arc, the interpret one another's breath, their sweat aches. Golden brocade glitters fiercely, burns, bleeds.
"Before you make the last wound, you must look directly into his eyes, you must show him respect. Then you are the master. at that last moment, when you understand his soul, when it is too late to go back."
Carmine flowers begin to rain into the blood-thirsty dry floor. Approving fans tap tap and patter on the ring side balconies. Dark velvet-clouds veil the audience's blood lust. They want to see the black soaking pool. They want it to happen in front of their greedy eyes. They want it.
Arms arcing above their heads. They avoid eyes.
He noticed me and moved away. For a better view i ordered another drink. Clinking coldly in my hand, it held my lips. A smirk curled around the edge of the fake crystal. His gaze averted itself behind the opened fan. Black with lace. An elegant diversion: saving face. A cube fell back into the glass.
"When you have looked into his eyes. Take him. The he is yours. Watch him as he kneels at your feet. He asks you to take him. That is your duty. Then you must do it. At that moment there is no-one else there with you. Only he, waiting. You will not hear the crowd. Your heart will break. you will do this again and again. They want to see you win each time. Always young; always beautiful."
they danced in consenting motion, facing each other, their eyes closed. They could see what they wanted to feel. She could see them through the lace. Her emblazoned lips slightly parted. A thickly-black eyelash shut her off. A swirl turned her away.
he had promised there would be no-one else. She had not promised anything. He had promised no other women. She saw them. She understood the promise. Her lacquered hair pulled too tightly at the rage within her gagging thoughts. Defeated.
A blood-cape for a shawl.
