I’m walking. I’m back in San Francisco. Jason’s here. We’re looking for the tapas place we went last time. It’s gone. In its stead, a bullring.

I look over at Jason. He’s got on a montera hat and manoletina shoes to match. Oh, not this – anything but this.

There’s a mirror in the lounge area. I have on a montera and manoletinas to match also. Dammit. This is not what I wanted this to be.

Jason’s signing up for something. He’s signing us up for something. I did not ask for this. I do not want any of this.

There’s a dark tunnel. More precisely, the tunnel swallows all light from the place we’re in—the lounge area that is.

Jason is fucking electric. I am not. He says come on, grabs my arm, pulls me into the tunnel that appears never-ending, and instantly we're on the other side.

Jason’s eyes glimmer with violence. "Let's kill some fucking bulls!" He unsheathes his sword. I am reluctant.

I am affected by this Jason because the real one has some degenerative condition that makes it painful to walk, so to see him all these years later stronger than ever makes me glad, even though I'm not interested in bullfighting in San Francisco with him.

We only have a few minutes to write, so the story ends before we fight any bulls. I'm confident Jason fights valiantly. I'm not sure how I fare and am relieved of knowing.