The Running of the Bulls

She had watched the men running

At Pamplona

She had pursed her lips at their

Palpable fear

Women frown at the sexual contradiction, the beast chasing the man

At least the ones who are tired of sex.

 

Those who still warm to a touch on a nipple

Sigh

And accept both the beast and the man.

 

Zelda took a shower in the middle of the afternoon

She had dreamed of making love in the heat behind the shades

Of a fan-driven hotel in Merida.

It was only a dream.

Even so, trickles of sweat formed between her thighs and at the small of her back as she

Remembered the dream

 

She ordered a martini and took it to the balcony

To watch the bulls.

Zelda ReTurns

She arrives as usual in a fur coat

Sable I think

Tosses it to the hat check girl

Along with her Tiparillos, which are no longer acceptable

She stops

Pulls a lipstick from her tiny clutch

Presses it to her carmine lips

Pouts

And follows Germaine to her usual table.

At least this is how I remember it.

Zelda is no longer the center of attention. But

Only because the attention is on lesser things.

When did we wobble away from the diamond?

Why have we settled for the simulated topaz?

How could Georges not be there

Dancing in attendance?

Where is the music

The white tie

The tails

The rhythm?

Zelda settles gracefully at my table.

You're mouldering little one.

The world has not changed.

Elegance is in the mind.

The little people have never acquired the knack and will never

Be able to strip us of it.

Elegance isn't a matter of giving but of receiving.

It is a generosity of spirit that embraces the outliers, the undertakers, the fishmongers

Even the plumbers

And knows them to be interesting because they are human.

Elegance even allows the poor blighters who wave the banner of elegance in defiance of the truth

To exist.

So said Zelda

Before her first sip.

You can imagine what she had to say after the second.