Alone.

I wish brazil would score. (Shit. Just as I was typing this, they did. Talk about lousy timing.)

You would probably have watched this with me, if you hadn’t had to wake up at the ungodly hour of 6am tomorrow. I don’t know why I’m staying up late alone to watch men kicking a stupid ball. I don’t even LIKE watching football as an alternative to advertisements most of the time. But I guess watching it reminds me of the times you were there at the other end of the line, giving your expert commentary using terms I only pretend to understand. The exhilaration we get at every goal - your exhilaration as a fan, and my exhilaration as your mood gets progressively better, indicating a nice goodbye at the end of the day.

I wish you were here to explain why Australia makes more shots on goal than Brazil, what kind of game tactic each side was using. Never mind that I wouldn’t have understood half of it, or that your explanation would probably have been interrupted by times when the game picks up speed. I don’t understand soccer, not without you. But it’s become almost a habit, I can’t sleep before two, and I still wait, almost as if you’ll call this time as usual to bet on the score line, and to laugh at this pseudo-soccer fan.

I am grateful for the world cup. Watching this match has been a comfort, somewhat. Perhaps it’s just because I’m too good at deluding myself. Perhaps it’s because the football field is a vat containing too many good memories of quiet and not too quiet nights of soccer indulgence. Even pretend indulgence. However far away, your presence lingers on in the noise and excitement that is football, noise that fills the unbearable silence which comes after my half-hearted cheers give no echo.

Final score: Brazil –Australia 2-0.

You missed a good game.
So did I.