The man with the cap was sitting at a small table, with a pen and paper lying on it. The table was under a plum tree. He patted the seat next to him. I sat obediently. He poured some liquid from his bottle into two medium-sized glasses.
“Bulgaria,” he said pointing at himself and swallowed his drink. “England,” he said pointing at me and indicated with his eyebrows and eyes that I should celebrate this fact. I barely tasted the liquid as it slid down my throat, but somehow I knew it was quite strong. He filled up the glasses straightaway. Oh hell, I thought, this guy is a professional drinker. I tried to work out, while I still could, how many glasses would be in the bottle and thought there would be around ten, five for him and five for me. I started to eat my bread roll vigorously.
After a couple of minutes grinning at each other, the man suddenly wrote down on a piece of paper the following soccer result: Bulgaria 2 England 0, Sofia, 1974. He drank the contents of his glass triumphantly and said “Hahahaha”. I picked up the paper and nodded my head,”No, no.” Such things are the other way around in Bulgaria, nodding your head means you disagree with someone, shaking it means acknowledgement.
Julian Worker Fiction Writing 