Some goals arrive with witnesses—

     a ball breaks the line
       and a whole room becomes
           one looooooong vowel.

I know.

When Egypt scored Tuesday,
     I stretched the word as far as breath allowed:

     GOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAL—

     the kind of call that believes
     volume might make the moment more true.

But the best goal of the week
   already happened on Monday,
  and nobody at Irby’s saw it.

I had napped for USA–Belgium,
  saving myself for the full ninety.

You napped, too,
    but somehow woke first.

While my phone held your unanswered text,
      ya did the least Mari thing imaginable:

      went on without me,
      walked into Irby’s alone,
      and saved the last remaining seat
                          in our corner.

By the time I arrived,
   _full_ had become a technicality.

Standing room only,
         wall against wall,
         breath against breath…

         all of us trying to will
         the same ball in the same direction.

Belgium had other ideas.

At 2–0 in the fiftieth,
       hope had been reduced to arithmetic…

       somewhere between
      “_aw, shucks_” and “_that’ll do_,”

       you were _ready_.

So we gave Belgium the rest of the pitch
                 and took the night home.

Orca received the greeting she was owed,
     the walk she required,

     and then—

              no whistle,
                 replay,
                 or breathless announcer

                 searching for the call.

Just a door closing,
     sheets losing their shape,
     and the two of us
     slipping past regulation,
              past extra time,
              past what I thought

              the body could keep asking for.

Some goals don’t need witnesses.

Afterward,
          _Skywalkers_ climbed above the city
               while we folded into the couch,
         two daredevils reaching for rooftops,
           while we did the much easier thing:

                                      falling—

                  asleep in each other’s arms.

We woke around 3:30 a.m.

You left the way Mari always leaves—
                             direct,
                      without drama,
         then, when ya made it home,
        shot the sweetest goodnight

               back across the dark.

I carried it into four more hours of sleep.

By Tuesday,
   separate had returned…

   apart had not.

Coal and Orca needed us.
The weekend had left its usual evidence.

And between all the tending,
    the catching up,
    the business of being responsible,

    our thread kept moving—
    steady as a match clock,
    alive with Argentina–Egypt
    and that Mari certainty

    that I somehow won the game for Argentina. (I probably did)

Egypt went up 1–0, then 2–0.

I offered the universe one joke:

         “Queue the Messi tears.”

Fifty-nine minutes
          (and several seriously questionable calls) later,

           Messi _was_ crying…

           over a 3–2 comeback
           that had looked impossible
           until the scoreboard insisted otherwise.

Maybe I did win it—

      I did exactly
      what you're always cautioning me

      not
         to
            do:
               _said something_.

Which, as we both know,
       is enough to make The Universe take note…

       and immediately move to intervene against me.

So—
   we spent the whole day in different rooms,
   passing the same match between us,

   missing each other
   without ever quite losing touch.

Tonight should bring us back to Irby’s—
                                trivia,

                   maybe a bite before,
                       maybe 325 after?

Nothing firm.
Nothing needed.

Whatever tonight becomes,
         this week crossed the line on Monday
         and it’s been running up the score

         ever since.