FICTION : TOREADOR / ELIZABETH STIX
We have been big, big, BIG fans of Elizabeth Stix’s darkly funny, often times surreal, short fiction for a long, long time at this point. Her work spans from sentient, mother shaped pimples to overly familiar bears to dirigible spouses and so much more, all of it fantastic. And for The Racket 50 (which you can read right here) she gave us “Toreador”, a brief, but expansive, peek at the beginning of what might be love.
Stix did us the great favor of recording the piece for you, our readers, to enjoy. We suggest you do so.
“Toreador”
by Elizabeth Stix
You say you want to be like Hemingway.
“In what way?” I ask.
“In every way,” you answer. “The life is the writing. The writing is life. There is no space between man and creation. Creation and God.” We’re in a hotel bar – bright lights and worn maroon carpet – waiting for a hot fudge sundae. On a TV in the corner, Peter Jennings says that Skylab has pierced the atmosphere, a burning trail of fire.
“Didn’t Hemingway shoot himself in the chest?” I ask.
You laugh at me. “You’re looking at it from the wrong angle. Think of the running of the bulls, the roar of the crowd at a bullfight.”
“Do you know that bulls are colorblind?” I say. “It’s the motion of the cape that gets them. The cape hides the matador’s sword. They use red to mask the blood.”
The waitress brings our sundae, lays down two long spoons. Her earrings are thick white hoops and her hair smells like Breck shampoo. I scrape chocolate from the side and lick the spoon.
“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before,” you say, and I wonder if you know how many women men have said that to. You lean in and kiss me, once on the forehead and once on the cheek, and I’m startled by your gesture. An ambush, yet deferential. I think: I should leave now. This can’t go anywhere good. But then we are dating, and then we are married, and I can’t blame you for that.
Elizabeth Stix is a writer living in the East Bay.
