chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

mi torero…

In her dream, the ground shook beneath the thundering hooves of the bull. The crowd’s voice rose and fell as one. The air vibrated. The cape flashed crimson. Her fingers traced the memory of sequins and embroidered satin. The bull stopped. Turned. Breath was drawn in. Held. The air stilled. Into the silence she whispered, Mi torero.

Her dream shifted. Her fingers traced the scar embroidered in his warm flesh. A warning, he had told her. A close call. The bull was young, and so was I.

The thundering, the roaring, the heat, the vibration, the crimson is in her blood, on her skin. Mi torero, she breathed, mi torero.

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