A family, not actively recruiting for new members, plays volleyball. A woman, wearing a t-shirt proclaiming her a beach authority figure, interferes.
“VOLLEYBALL!!!” she shrieks with her mouth, wasting three exclamation marks. No-one on the beach interrupts their holiday to join in. The family, two versus two, want nobody to join their game.
“VOLLEYBALL!!!” she insists, loudly, intrusively.
She peels off her ‘I-work-here-so-my-rules’ t-shirt to reveal a tanned, lean torso that the German father’s eyes reveal he would gladly eat his buffet breakfast from, if only he knew the correct translation to ask.
“VOLLEYBALL!!!” she gobfarts, with a ‘yes, let’s go’ hand motion as she steps onto the sandy court. The boy serves towards her inclusively. The ball dances on a stiff sea breeze and hangs before arcing down to reach her hopelessly flapping limbs, which cannot agree on one direction.
She slaps the ball as if flirting with it ineptly. The heads and hearts of her forced and now losing team mates sink as one, as good families are predisposed to react to such setbacks.
“VOLLEYBALL” she fucking shouts.
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