His body, black as the night, grande, like a mountain. One-half ton of exploding death. He pounds the ground with hooves of steel, his smoking nostrils flaring blood-red, red as my Traje de Luces, my suit of lights.
El Toro. He is bold, brave, fierce. Will I be his equal? Will I be as brave? I am Campeón Torero, the champion. How many bulls have I faced? We come together for the danza, the dance. Only one will walk away.
My Rosita is here. She watches from the stands, her eyes black as this beast before me. She clutches her breast in fear. Will she greet me with a kiss, or tears when we are finished?
My heart pounds in my chest. I must set aside my fear; All that exists is this moment he and I stand together.
“Toro. Venga.” Come, let us begin this cita, this tryst.
He stamps the ground as we face each other. He is a good one, this bull. Smart. Crafty. Wicked.
The Banderilleros before me have done their work. His blood boils beneath his black hide, fueled by raging fires within. It is aroused by the banderillas, the lances in his back. I see the hatred in his eyes, there is death in his horns.
The crowd screams, “¡Viva, El Matador!” It is for his hot blood they are waiting, watching, hoping.
“Toro, aqui.” I shake the muleta, the cape, and call him. With him it is not personal; It is this moving thing he hates.
He charges the hated movement. We whirl, muleta flowing over his head between the horns.
“¡Olé!” The crowd rises to its feet. I see my Rosita, her eyes wide. But she distracts me; I must concern myself with the beast.
“Toro, venga.” Come closer, I’ll whisper her name. Rosita, mi amante. It is for her we dance.
“¡Olé!” I feel the nearness of the massive body as he passes, I smell the powerful, sweetness of his sweat. Rosita cries out, his horns come too near.
Again he passes. We whirl and dance, sparkling red against a black background. “¡Olé! ¡El mejor Torero!”
Again he comes to me. “¡Olé!”
The movement of the muleta infuriates him. He is an enraged beast. He can not know death lies within the folds. “¡Olé!”
Again he passes. “¡Olé! Sangre! Su Sangre!”
The frenzied crowd calls for his blood. Now is the time. It will be him, or me. I remove la Espada, the silver serpent from the folds of the muleta.
“Toro, venga. Venga.” I welcome my compañero to the final danze.
“Cerca, Toro. Cerca.” Come closer Toro. We must be close, intimate, like lovers. He is my Rosita for this last bolero.
He has been brave, strong, and noble. Out of respect, the Estocada, the final thrust must be sure, swift, accurate. Though he is tired, his horns still speak death.
“Toro. Aqui.” He pauses, then comes to me. I dodge the horn and thrust home.