Emilio the Matador.
He’s my next door neighbor.
I hate it when he takes his work home with him.
All the noise. Three in the morning, crashing and roaring and smashing things.
All of the stomping and shouting he does, practicing for the upcoming fight.
And when the picadors come over, oh my god, what a racket those guys make.
I never get any sleep.
And the smells.
His garbage cans are always overflowing.
The plastic bags burst, leaking God knows what over the sidewalk.
But on the bright side, Emilio is always grilling something good in his back yard.