Fragile Beasts by Tawni O’Dell

yellow? Isn’t it supposed to be red?”
    “A torero uses two capes. First, the capote”—she points to the fabric billowing out behind the man like a sail on a boat—“then later, the muleta. That’s the red cape you’re referring to. It’s much smaller than a capote. The red color is a matter of tradition. Bulls are color-blind.”
    “No way.”
    “Yes,” she says.
    “Speaking of color-blind,” I hear Klint comment from behind me, “check out the guy’s socks.”
    Miss Jack ignores him, but her lips flatten with disapproval.
    “Then why do bulls charge when you wave something red at them?” I keep going.
    “The color has nothing to do with it. They attack moving objects. The color is simply tradition.”
    “Is this the bullfighter’s name? Manuel Obrador?”
    “Yes.”
    “And what about this part? El Soltero?”
    “His nickname. Most toreros have nicknames.”
    “What does it mean?”
    “Think about it,” she instructs me. “It’s not that different from the English equivalent.”
    “Soltero.” I repeat the word. “Soldier? Solid? Solemn? Solar?”
    “Solitary,” Klint interrupts.
    Miss Jack turns and looks at him.
    “And what do you call a man who chooses to be solitary, to live alone?”
    “A hermit,” Shelby volunteers.
    “A bachelor,” Klint says.
    “Yes,” Miss Jack agrees and heads toward the dining room again, “Manuel Obrador was the Bachelor.”
    Shelby gives Klint an admiring glance. How did he figure that out and I didn’t?
    I lag behind and watch the two of them walk side by side behind Miss Jack.
    Why am I even here?
    I look back at the poster. The bull, on all fours, is almost as tall as the matador who’s standing upright on two feet. The animal’s back is about as high as his shoulders, and its horns are as thick as his arms.
    The little black shoes he’s wearing look like ballet slippers. I can tell there’s no cleats on them, and I wonder if that’s done on purpose to make things more difficult for him. It occurs to me that some traction might be helpful when a guy’s running around a dirt ring with a bull chasing him.
    He has his feet close together, planted flat on the ground, with his arms reaching high over his head holding the cape, his entire body stretched out in a graceful curved line, his face full of concentration but no fear, looking more like he’s about to launch himself off a cliff into a lagoon in a swan dive than he’s trying to prevent a huge, pissed-off animal from charging at his balls.
    If I had to pick one word to describe him besides “stupid,” it would be “vulnerable.”
    I catch up with the others. We’re eating dinner in a cantaloupe-colored room with a whole wall of windows and smooth, blue ceramic tiles on the floor, each one painted with a design of green curlicues and yellow flowers. The table and chairs are made of a dark wood with green-and-gold-striped satin cushions on the chairs. The tablecloth is pale green with pink roses embroidered all over it.
    This room is covered with paintings, too, all different styles and all kinds of different subjects, but my eyes are instantly drawn to one of a bullfighter again. I can’t tell if it’s the same guy who’s in the poster. The brushstrokes are smudgy—impressionist stuff, I think—and he’s wearing a white suit this time and using a red cape. On the opposite wall is another painting that looks like it was made by the same artist. It’s of a woman dancing in a tight red dress that flares out at the bottom in frothy layers of ruffles. She has slicked-back, black hair and big hoops in her ears. Her back is arched slightly and her arms are stretched above her. The pose looks familiar and I realize her body’s making the same line that El Soltero’s body makes in his poster.
    I know the type of dancing she’s doing, but I can’t think of the word then it comes to me all of a sudden: flamenco. It’s a kind of Spanish dancing.
    I don’t know where I picked up the word.