Stranger

She’s still sore because I watched the game
last night. This day-cruise on the Rhine
hasn’t changed her mind – although she did 
enjoy the Riesling and laughed at one of my jokes. 
She’s from Düsseldorf. I’m thousands of miles 
from home, in an obscure time-zone, with castles 
perched on wine hills and their towers laughing 
down at us on this magical river that meanders 
back and forth like a silver ribbon. Silver 
is nice, but it isn’t gold. Still one more game 
to go. I catch them online, always a day late. 
After the fact. Like staring at a star that perished 
a long time ago. A special subscription fee 
for the playoffs makes this possible. Otherwise 
I’d have to stay up till 4am. Not a good idea. 
Anyway, what can I say, I love the game. 
I love the team logo. Even on my tablet. All 
those heroes from the past: their names soaring 
in the rafters of my youth. Je me souviens.
I told her the last time we won a championship
was four hundred years ago. Roughly when 
Montaigne used to pace in his chateau tower 
and scribble his thoughts on everything. Literally. 
The stone walls of his chamber bear witness. 
Drove the cleaning lady mad, apparently. 
Hölderlin, for his part, was a bonafide recluse: 
he spent the second half of his life in his tower, 
on the Neckar, having mislaid the key 
to his own mind – and with adoring fans standing
outside his window waiting for an autograph. 
I said I thought that was crazy. She’s an English 
Lit expert and couldn’t help mentioning the fact
that Shakespeare drank the nectar of the gods 
while stumbling between his room and the stage, 
acting out for us our deceptive and wondrous 
selves. So I shouldn’t try so hard. The thing is – 
and she can’t possibly understand this –  
I’ve tasted the latest glories and seen my people 
dance on the streets. Even if just on a tablet. 
The team wasn’t supposed to go this far. 
They caught everyone off guard. And now
a part of me that’s been sleeping wants to lace up 
a pair of dusty skates, swoosh down the ice,
and rip a slapper off the cross-bar. And witness 
the wintry night crack open while the rest 
of the world dreams under woolen blankets. 
Because it’s all down to two teams. Each has 
won three games. So, like I said, just one more 
to go. I still don’t know if we really did it. 
If we win, I’ll be ecstatic. If we lose, I’ll wonder: 
well, since this was all yesterday – another 
yesterday among yesterdays – does it really 
make a difference? At least that’s what 
she would have me think.

FRANCIS FERNANDES grew up in the US and Canada. He studied in Montréal and has a degree in mathematics. Since spring 2020, his writing has appeared in over twenty literary journals, including Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, Defenestration Magazine, Saint Katherine Review, Amethyst Review, and Third Wednesday. He lives in Frankfurt, Germany, where he writes and teaches.