Christine M. Estel
Too Close

Just like last week, and the three times last month, and the countless other times since 2005, I’m in the stillness, the cascades of sheets enveloping me, and I’m drifting onto the edge of sweet release, when the memory, like a raging, hellbent bull, charges me. Its gallops, just as the grinding of my brakes, send vibrations through my body and pulsations across my skin.
The bull's slobbery, hot exhales collide with the dank air, sending shivers straight to my bones as my heart leaps into my throat, then burrows into the pit of my stomach, then forces itself back through my mouth as rhythmic screams, penetrated only once by my sister’s distant but perfectly piercing shriek I can still hear.
It’s always in the opaque blanket of black, the same as that deep Autumn evening, the same as the clothes he wore when he darted across my right of way, when I am reminded the bull wants the red banner — my scarlet letter — or my brain, the two mutually inclusive of each other, impenetrable. No amount of the same rapid rain will stop the bull’s pursuit. So I thrash, duck, and hide; I widen my eyes and slam them shut, on repeat, hoping the bull will change its mind, but its heels spring from the dusty earth, pushing it faster and stronger, reminding me how my speed for the conditions that night left little room for error. And, on the cusp of getting the horns, mere inches away, though they feel like millimeters, screeeeeccchhhhh. We, the man and I, are pardoned.
I barely made it out, and so I am visiting her again, taking my spot on her billowy, gray couch, curved at the perfect angle for me. For the umpteenth time, I explain the scene, which takes priority over the other discussions I had planned, and, reluctantly, admit that the bull will likely outlive me. We concoct a plan that puts me at the best vantage point in the arena to outsmart it.