The street sign said Calle Los Panchos. It was fixed to a wall the color of dried blood and heat. The girl stood before it, wearing the heavy gold-braided jacket of a matador, though she looked too young for the killing. She held a single red rose in her hands. The petals were coming away from the flower, caught in a wind you could not see, drifting up like sparks from a brush fire. She looked down at the rose and her face was very still. It was a good face, and the light was honest.
The street sign said Calle Los Panchos. It was fixed to a wall the color of dried blood and heat. The girl stood before it, wearing the heavy gold-braided jacket of a matador, though she looked too young for the killing. She held a single red rose in her hands. The petals were coming away from the flower, caught in a wind you could not see, drifting up like sparks from a brush fire. She looked down at the rose and her face was very still. It was a good face, and the light was honest.