The Matador

Where I come from, women are enjoyed. They work hard in their own way, but they also take great care in themselves. They are alien beings compared to us men. While we are drenched in sweat and the dust turns to mud on our skins, theirs trickles like spring water down their curves. We men dance with the bulls in a jarring, frantic jive. The women, their very walk is a dance, meant to enthrall with every twist of their hip and extension of their leg. These are the women I'm used to.
In L.A. the difference from women here compared to my women in Spain is stark. These women are a different creature. Their power is raw and young, unlike the age-old seduction game I'm used to. They work alongside men and above them. Sometimes they work back-breaking jobs, jobs that are meant for men. They don't take no for an answer and often their first response is no. They walk with purpose, like they are always late and sometimes sacrifice femininity in place of succeeding.
This was my waitress, of this breed. Her hair was frazzled at the ends, in need of a trim. She usually forgot to reapply her lipstick as needed. Her arms were muscled from busing tables and her elbows were often bruised from bumping into the counters. She was nothing I was used to.
When we met, it was at the bar across from her diner. A friend and her went out for celebratory drinks to congratulate themselves on finishing their first year of law school. In all her differences, I couldn't help feeling drawn. Her seduction was a trickle compared to a torrent. A glance, catching my eye, a slight smile that parted her lips. I played the game, learning as I went. It was more of a dance with her, like a bull. Go the wrong way and you could be speared. I learned much of her ability to reject so easily and that she could hold her own. Her moves were subtle and at times I wondered who was the matador. Part of being a matador is the thrill of dancing with such a powerful creature. With my waitress, it was much the same.