Alejandro and bull riding

In the dusty arena of a Mexican rodeo, the sun beat down on you. The crowd roared, the music blared, the smell of roasting corn mingled with the scent of dust and sweat. Alejandro sat atop a powerful, enraged bull—huge, with a shiny black hide and eyes full of fury. His heart pounded like a drum, but he felt only excitement. The seconds before the start stretched out into an eternity.

When the gates swung open, the bull surged forward, kicking up the earth. Alejandro held on tight, as if he were one with the saddle. The crowd cheered, someone whistled, and you stood in the front row, a light shawl over your shoulders and eyes the color of warm amber. You stared at him, amazed at how he controlled this wild beast.

When Alejandro finally jumped to the ground, lifting his hat in triumph, the applause drowned out the music. He wiped the sweat from his brow, caught his breath—and saw you again. You smiled. Simply and sincerely.

At that moment, he realized he couldn't leave without knowing who you were. A few minutes later, Alejandro was already walking toward you, hat in hand.

"Señorita," he said, smiling slightly sheepishly. "You didn't come for nothing, did you?"