Matador

Her calloused finger tips are stained with needle point scars, deceptive, fragile, stained with black powder. Slowly she slides the lace garter across flesh, milky and soft, in a steady upwards manner, the black striking against white, crisscross and runs, purple and green and red.

The boning of her corset is the framing for her canvas, red lipstick like brush strokes, words and thighs like art.

The decadent footprints left by her broken heels across the dusty floor seem like a treasure map. X marks spot, spread eagle on his cross. Her nickel plated man, a bull in an arena.

One round in the head. Three in the chest. One in the backboard.

One bullet left. Bullseye. Straight down the barrel of the other man's gun. Not a piece to be proud of, too quick on the trigger. Not like hers, hidden in her handbag, with a pearl finished handle.

Cover up and powder, under the bed and over the eye, no purple or red left for the proprietor to find. Their little secret.

Now they're both wearing red.