1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3
Two men holding beers or lagers before a football game. The fat one’s in his usual chair with usual cushions, the other one’s only visible from behind: a thick crop of black hair, skinny frame. Fat man makes hand gestures: explaining in his own rambling way the game’s strategy, no doubt: “See, he should’ve played so-and-so and used a 4-4-2 defence, etc.” The compelling whatever-it-is of football takes over and the men sit rapt for five minutes until the skinny one leans forward, waves his beer then leaps up.
“Goaaaal!” is probably what he’s saying. He’s not crying out in pain or having a stand-up orgasm. When he spins around and “pumps the air” it’s clearly the man next door, the one who wept on the toilet, like his lover(?) did tonight, unknown to him. While she cries he celebrates, chinking beers with fatso, who’s remained seated throughout the whole goal ordeal. Rapid words flow—convinced of a victory for their team?—and the man next door goes to the fridge and pulls out a few more beers, as though he lived there.