The goal, earlier that afternoon, had put her in a good mood.
He seemed intelligent, but, seeing that being good with words can mean being skillful at suggesting things that are not there, putting curtains in front of cliffs, it was hard to tell how much he seemed, and how much he was.
The goal had been a great start to her afternoon, either way.
It was more how a person walked, or what they didn’t say, that brought her to understand people.
With musicians, she judged the movement of their wrists, instead of what sounds came from the instrument. The way an instrument was held.
That afternoon, someone had yelled, vive la France, in her face, and she judged them on the way they yelled it, and the spit that had come on her shirt, instead of what it was that the person had said.
The man, at the café, asked about the World Cup.
France, she said.
Their conversations weren’t anything out of a movie – hold on, that’s good, isn’t it? It means that their conversations couldn’t have been scripted by a screenplay writer, having written the story to pay the rent – predicting who they were, and how they would act.
You can’t include enough footnotes in this story to capture how she stirred her gin, and why it was significant, or what she thought about when he stood up from the table.