The night before the World Cup Final was silent.
It was not a peaceful silence. It was a heavy silence. The kind of silence that happens before a thunderstorm.
Alex sat on the floor of his hotel room. He was building a tower out of plastic cups.
Mark sat opposite him. Mark was wearing a bathrobe and sunglasses. He was eating a churro.
"Stop shaking the floor," Alex said. "My tower is unstable."
"I am not shaking," Mark said with his mouth full. "I am vibrating. It is the energy of the universe flowing through me. Or maybe the sugar."
Alex placed the final cup on top of the tower. It stood for one second. Then it fell.
"Entropy," Alex sighed. "Everything falls."
"Not us," Mark said. "We float. We are buoyant."
Mark offered Alex a churro.
"Eat," Mark said. "It is fried dough. It is happiness."
"I cannot eat," Alex said. "Tomorrow I play against Lionel Messi."
Mark stopped chewing. He lowered his sunglasses.
"The Alien," Mark whispered. "The Goat. The Flea."
