The Last Bull

The dust of the arena still coated Arthur's throat, three years after retirement. He stood before the mirror, adjusting his father's battered hat—the black felt stained with sweat and the memory of fourteen near-fatal goring. Today was Elena's wedding, and Arthur had promised to wear it, though the promise felt like another wound.

He picked at the orange on the dresser, his thumbnail breaking the peel. Citrus scent filled the small room, sharp and honest, unlike everything else about today. The invitation had said 'celebration,' but Arthur knew better. His daughter was marrying the man who'd replaced him at the firm, the one who'd called Arthur's departure 'strategic realignment' while pushing him out at fifty-five.

'You're being difficult,' his sister had said over the phone. 'It's her day. Can't you put aside the bull for once?'

Arthur had laughed, the sound hollow in his chest. The bull. That's what they'd called him in the ring—the last great American matador, though 'great' was generous. He'd been adequate, sometimes lucky, never exceptional. Just like his career. Just like his marriage, which had withered the same year his nerve had failed him.

He remembered the last bull, a massive black creature named Diablo who'd looked at Arthur with what seemed like recognition. The moment before the horn found his ribs, Arthur had understood something about mercy and cowardice that he'd never been able to articulate. He'd never returned to the ring.

The orange fully peeled now, Arthur ate section by section, letting the juice run down his chin. In the distance, church bells began. He placed the hat on his head, straightened his tie in the mirror, and practiced the smile he'd been perfecting for three decades—the one that said everything was fine, that he was happy for her, that some victories weren't worth winning anyway.

His hands weren't shaking anymore. That was something.