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With closed eyes I no longer see a man forcing me down against a bed with his little boy hands. In the darkness there's a little moonbeam slicing through the window, slicing into my right eye. I can speak to God now, if He is a Light now. I will tell Him not to worry: I have seen a Dalí; I have seen inside the walls of every institution; I have made carrot cake with my mother in September. I have prayed: Just make this man move away.

Just make him take his hands off me.

God is stagnant. Stubborn in his idleness, a goddamn bull.

* * *

I have seen a Spanish bull fight. I have seen the sword slice again and again, an array of flags stabbing into the flesh of an animal. The thing is, after once or twice or more, I stopped feeling the pain and started seeing the colors. I started seeing the true brutality of the bull, past his tongue hanging dry, his side bleeding. I said to myself: this creature is deserving of death. And then I stood up to cheer, wearing a flamenco dress, speaking English to myself under my breath as the dead animal was dragged out through the dirt.

Fucking hell yes.

* * *

These are the kinds of things I only read about. Hemingway, mostly. Hemingway was a man's man, and I am a woman. Una chica, una coqueta with pink lips and a flirtatious glance to the side through the glass in my hand. A beckoning look, a swirling skirt lifted up past my knees. Past the top parts of my thighs, to the part that is thick and where he said I beckoned his two hands to come.

I don't remember that part, I tell him. It is three days later.

And then he says to me, "I don't know how exactly to say this in English."

"To say what?"

"To say an apology."

"You knew I was quite drunk," I say.

"I guess you should not drink so much."

* * *

Then it has to be Stockholm syndrome if I fall in love with him, only just a little bit different. Fall in love like a private joke to myself, unspoken, looking past his crooked teeth, thin lips, small stature. Melissa sees him days later, laughs, hugging me: "Why were you even kissing him in the first place?"

* * *

I have found a boy with blond hair and full lips to sleep next to in bed, to kiss me on the chin when I try to look away. His body is a blanket only. In my dreams the crowd is waving little white banderas and throwing roses at me, and I hold them in my teeth so hard that my tongue begins to bleed.