They’re playing. But as always in my world – not quite like everyone else.
The one on the left is the tallest, the most theatrical – pointed cap, round trousers; he leans towards his ball with his whole body, his whole being, as if the entire universe depended on that throw. His fingers splayed, his posture that of a clumsy dancer – he plays with an intensity that far exceeds what is at stake.
The one on the right is smaller, stockier, his helmet looking out of place on his head. He holds his ball, he waits, he observes. He is the patient player. The one who lets the other wear himself out and who assesses the situation.
And between them – in the background – a small winged creature playing the flute whilst dancing. She isn’t playing boules. She’s playing music for those who are playing boules. As if every competition deserved its own soundtrack, its own angel musician circling overhead.
We play boules as we wage a battle. We wage a battle as we play boules.
And the angel plays the flute for both.