Staying at a château adjacent to the Lac Leman, gold trim and chandeliers.
We are having a party, lots of wine, beer, on the TVs are football games. England is playing Portugal, and across the front of the blue and white shirts of the England team is written “DOWNING”. The Portuguese also have a name.
Another crowd, of Americans this time, shows up. I don’t know this crowd, but one of them comes over, points to a TV.
“Who’s playing?”
“Portugal,” I reply.
But he says, “No, it’s Turkey.” And close up, I see he’s right.
I go over to a table to get more alcohol.
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“Give me more wine.” a squat woman tells me, and I am annoyed. There is not much left, but I split the remainder. It’s fizzy. It’s actually ginger beer.
Tired now, I retire to my bedroom, but I am afraid this new party will keep me up. I lie down and hold up my hand. The cut on the back of my index finger is not healing. It is a vertical line, the length of the finger. I look closely and bend it; the cut opens out to reveal pulsing flesh and organs underneath.
Now Germany has a free kick and to celebrate, the team does a slide, face first, arms spread out. Some of the players get their head and bodies stuck, they are upside down in the grass, legs flailing comically in the air.
They complain that the ground is too soft to take a free kick, and to prove it they try the slide again. Three new holes side by side are created by the players heads. The ref is irritated. He puts a marker to the right of the third hole.
“You can take your kick from here,” he says.
The England team line up across the goal line. The goal keeper parries the ball but it ricochets off a teammate and bounces over the line despite the wall of players. We attempt to clear it, but it is clearly a goal.
Same old.
Image by Lusia
