A fly sits on the cracked point of a black bull’s horn. The horn connects to the skull at a thick lump of meat. The bull’s head comes up. The insect lifts into the sky.

It is hot. The sun is going down. The dry dirt rises in sand colored clouds and carries past the fence to him. He’s dressed in yellow and blue. He says he’s The Matador, not a matador. People call him Lucky. He leans over the fence. The bull expands in the muddled air.

“Hey boy,” he says. Nothing. It doesn’t move. He whistles with his fingers. The bull looks up. Snorts. Shakes it’s head. Lucky sees the thick veins at the bull’s neck, like writhing black-snakes.

“Christ,” he mumbles. The bull goes to him. (more…)