Ever been to a bullfight? My ex-husband and I went on holiday to Spain and . . . when I think of that.
I imagine her: that young calf, in the veal pen, now grown into a bull:
A bull in the ring with all the coloured spears sticking out of her body, still fighting, still moving, and the crowd cheers and laughs, and claps, and the bullfighter . . . the matador stabs her again . . . and she slowly loses strength, and her spirit, and that is what scares me to death: I sense her spirit has been . . . drained out of her . . .