World Cup

She stands in the doorway of the lounge, watching him. ‘Going where?’ she says. In the brutal smudges of mascara her dark eyes brim with tears. He snorts, raising the glass to his mouth. ‘Ask an Afrikaner where he’s going? Stupid bitch.’ He tosses back the last of his drink. ‘Where the fuck is there to go? Huh?’ He wrenches the door of the cabinet open, the family photos and ornaments trembling, and grabs a new bottle of Oudemeester.