When the bull's knees sweep a semi-circle in the burning dust of the ring, she begins to cry. The bull struggles to its feet to the barks of an angry Matador, who, by executing too sharp of an angle, has crippled an otherwise brave and noble animal. It is no longer a fight, it's a slaughter. And while her own eyes remain steady on the action below, not turning for an instant, my eyes are fixed to hers.