I’m watching
a man dressed as a Roman gladiator on television, wildly waving a flag. The
week has been unterminably long and hot; my feet are twice their usual size and
your droning voice is not wise given that I skipped last month’s period and
could kill you right now without thinking twice. You’ve been going on about the
need for logical thinking in our relationship, just another way of saying I’m
too emotional. I’m willing to accept that’s true just to watch this game in
silence and I don’t even like football that much.
“We need to
measure our words, think things through, not get carried away,
Darling, what
we need now is…”
“Rigore!”
says the match commentator.
“Rigore, my
love?” I finish his sentence for him and pray for a swift passage to the knockout
stage.
And the crowd
grows wild.
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