The match dragged on. The sun climbed higher, spilling gold and heat over the playground, making the dry earth shimmer faintly. Dust rose in lazy clouds with each kick, and the children moved like the world existed only for their games.
The boy under the crooked tree stretched out his legs, feeling the rough bark press against his back. His shirt clung stubbornly to his skin, his hair sticking faintly to his forehead, but he didn't move. Watching was enough. Watching was better than playing, sometimes. There was a rhythm to it, a quiet amusement in seeing everything unfold without having to lift more than an arm or a leg.
He noticed how the ball bounced unpredictably off a rock and sent two of the boys spinning in different directions. One fell on his rear with a grunt, while the other tumbled into the dust with arms flailing like a badly conducted orchestra. And through it all, Zit continued running, laughing, falling, getting up, and laughing again, as if gravity had no claim over him at all.
"Hey, brat!"
The sharp call came from the house behind him. Familiar, slightly exasperated, but not unkind.
He didn't turn immediately, letting the voice blend into the general soundtrack of dust, shouts, and laughter.
"You're daydreaming again, huh?" the woman called. "Come inside and have your breakfast before it turns into glue!"
He had to smile at that. Breakfast as glue—a reasonable exaggeration, and yet strangely accurate on some mornings.
Finally, he turned his head. She stood in the doorway, one hand resting on her hip, the other shielding her eyes from the sun's glare. Her apron was streaked with flour, and loose strands of hair clung to her face, caught in the stubborn breeze. Tired, yes, but the sort of tired that came from routine, from caring too much about keeping things orderly rather than from exhaustion.
"Did you hear me?" she called again.
"Yeah," he replied with a half-smile.
"Then move those legs!"
"In a bit!" he shouted back, knowing she would shake her head and mutter something about lazy boys and cold breakfasts that he couldn't quite catch. He chuckled quietly at the thought.
Turning back to the field, he saw Zit sprawled on the ground again, either from another spectacular tumble or perhaps just for dramatic effect. Either way, the boy's laughter rang out, clear and bright, infectious enough to make even those who had fallen with him chuckle through their embarrassment.
The watcher folded his arms over his chest, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "He's impossible," he muttered under his breath, more amused than critical.
Impossible, yes. But also remarkable in its own way. Zit could lose a dozen times and still grin as if he'd won everything. Maybe that was why everyone liked him. Maybe that was why he couldn't stop watching, even though he told himself over and over it was unnecessary.
The sky above was a faded blue, streaked with thin clouds that moved lazily across the sun. He tipped his head back against the rough bark, letting the heat settle over him, feeling the wind shift, warm and dry, carrying the faint clang of a spoon striking a pot from the kitchen. Breakfast waited, but he didn't feel the rush to move yet. The world was too amusing in motion to interrupt.
A small wave of dust rose as one boy lunged for the ball, slipping in a spectacularly graceless manner. He let out a quiet snort at the sight, amused by the exaggerated flailing and the squeak of fingers against dirt. He imagined narrating it for an audience: "Observe, the fearless defender of the dusty field, battling a rogue ball with unmatched clumsiness!" He almost laughed out loud, catching himself before the sound could escape.
The children's shouts rolled over the ground like tiny storms, each collision of sneakers and dust making its own beat. He noticed patterns, tiny quirks: the way one boy always overcompensated when kicking, the way another's arms flailed dramatically every time he stumbled. All of it was ordinary, yet he found it endlessly entertaining, cataloging it in the mental notebook he carried for his own amusement.
Zit sprinted past him again, hands waving, face bright with energy, grinning like someone who had discovered the secret to eternal joy. He could hardly believe anyone could maintain that level of enthusiasm. He tried to picture it mathematically, wondered if there was a formula for joy this persistent, then shook his head. Too ridiculous.
The wind shifted again, carrying the faint smell of flour and stew from the open door behind him. He took a deep breath, letting it mingle with the dusty heat of the field. Even ordinary smells could feel strange and vivid when you noticed them enough.
He glanced toward the house, expecting the familiar sight of the woman standing in the doorway, arms crossed, pretending to be stern. Sure enough, she was there, though she didn't move, letting him linger a little longer.
"Five minutes!" he called, loud enough for her to hear.
"You said that ten minutes ago!" came her reply, full of exasperation, but laced with a smile he could hear in her voice.
He shook his head, silently congratulating himself on stretching the limits of her patience just slightly. It felt like a small victory, utterly meaningless, and entirely satisfying.
Turning back toward the field, he noticed the kids still running, still tripping, still laughing in ways that made no sense yet entertained him endlessly. Every tumble, every shout, every sprint across the sun-baked ground was like a tiny comic sketch, unfolding without the audience realizing they were part of the show.
He leaned back against the tree again, letting the bark scratch faintly against his shoulder. The dust rose, swirled, and settled again. He could almost trace invisible patterns in it, imagining little stories for each shape: "Here lies the dust of a heroic kick; there, the ghost of a slip past the goalpost."
He smiled softly. The field, the sun, the dust, the laughter — it was all perfectly ordinary. And yet, it never failed to amuse him. He lingered, letting the scene wash over him, delighting in the small, absurd, beautiful rhythms of a day that, for everyone else, would be completely ordinary.