At the hotel, although it's early, she pushes her jeans down the length of her legs and steps out carefully, as if peeling away an outer skin. She gets into bed. I'm tired, too. I regret taking her to the fight. She didn't want to go in the first place. I knew that.
I said, How can you go to Madrid and not see a bullfight? I said, It's the Fiestas de San Isidro for Christ sake, we've got to go. As a cultural experience if nothing else.
And she said she would go, for me. Nothing else. She said this and we went.