Victoria Almodovar knew all about my mother, the way she wore high heels and charmed every matador worth the blood on their hands. My mother was like a fire bird, too fierce for ordinary life. I tried to talk to her like any son might, but every attempt at closeness led only to broken embraces.
Victoria said it wasn’t my fault; I’d just had a bad education. She said she would teach me the truth in 24 days. Tie me up, tie me down until I confess the flower of my secret. I need not compare myself with the cadre of live flesh for I am just like they were before they were pros.
Victoria commanded that I breathe in the skin I live in and proclaim when I’m so excited to be governed by the law of desire for America the beautiful and all of its dark habits.