Flour of Life

Wilson and Keane were trying to play some games and lose some steam.

After half an hour of pure chaos and something that looked more like tennis than table tennis, they decided to sit in the rest area and drink some coffee.

Keane was complaining about job interviews that he was going on.

"Will, my man, I will lose it. I will snap and break some little HR lady in half. These job interviews are pure madness. There are like 5 rounds of it."

"I hear you. There are more rounds than there are sets in table tennis."

"True."

"You know what some of them will do?"

Keane was nodding from left to right and trying to catch some breath.

"They would sometimes give these tests or assignments to a bunch of candidates to solve, and then not hire anyone. You know, just to steal some solutions and ideas."

"What? No way."

"Yes way."

"I solved like a gazillion tests, man, and provided a bunch of solutions, and I have never been called back. I receive an email—bla bla bla something. I don't know, man. I will maybe buy a van and start stealing people, or just like do moving for people, like help grandma move her couch or something."

"Sounds good. People often move around, and the stuff is pretty difficult."

"I have an interesting thing for you, my Son."

"Go on, Rivers."

"It is sort of a mind labyrinth, mind twirl, if I may say so. You know how some would complain about how these hard physical jobs are mostly men, and then men complain about equality and so on."

"Not really."

"Well, you don't follow enough of the news. Anyways, listen, do you think it is hard for some women as well that they can't enter these hard physical jobs? I mean, it is just biology, and some lady that is struggling to find some easy job can't just use her body to move some heavy objects as a fallback. But for us men, there is kinda always at the back of our mind this safety net of moving heavy objects for money."

"Hmm, I never thought about it like that. I would never want to do something physical though. I think the time for that has passed."

"What time?"

"Let's get playing some more, shall we?"

"But I am still tired."

"Let's go."

After another half hour, Wilson was complaining about Sabina being pregnant.

They were drinking sparkling water. Keane was wearing his usual checkered woodcutter-like skirt.

"I have to do so many things now that she is pregnant. I feel bad for even being here."

"Aha, that returns us to my topic."

"What topic?"

"Moving heavy objects? She is pregnant. She can't move and do hard physical labor. Hell, she can't even tie her shoelaces maybe."

"You are really connecting topics based on nothing, making a really big stretch. But I can't answer you. I have no opinion, and I don't know what makes some people special and why they get good jobs, and why some get bad or don't get any."

"Your mum has some money. Can she hire me?"

"To do what? Move a couch? Ha ha."

"Good one."

At the Global Smash tournament in table tennis, the commentator was wondering why he could not be the one playing right now. He asked his assistant, "What do you think? Why can't I be the one that is playing in this tournament? What is the thing that makes those people special?"

The assistant said, "I really don't know, sir."

"If you had to guess."

"Can't really say. I am not sure."

"Please, just an opinion. It can be wrong. Don't be afraid. What is the difference between average and top-performing athletes?"

The assistant looked confused and uninterested. "Maybe muscles?"

"Hmm, maybe," the commentator said. "Good thinking." Then the silence filled the room, and the commentator went deep into his mind to think if having more muscles is what differs a normal bloke from a top-tier athlete.

Stella Dionis, magical Stella, shining and bright hope of her family. She was not just your average Joe. She was a top-tier alcoholic. She knew that what separated her from other average, boring people was one thing and one thing only.

Passion.

Muscles had nothing to do with her being a top-tier alcoholic, but it was something that was making her a top-tier flirt at the bar. She had muscles on muscles and was in great form for someone who has been doing a speed run to the hospital.

"Stella, it is your 3rd vodka. You should stop, probably," said Maria, who randomly joined Stella's table.

"Listen, Clair..."

"I am Maria."

"Listen, Mario. It is the passion, and it is the drive that is the point of life. Passion is life. I am drinking 3 days, not 3 vodkas."

Maria's eyes widened. "You have been poisoning yourself for 3 days straight?"

"Nai," Stella said. "Nein, nai. What do they say in those big board meetings? Hai i Nei or something like that?"

Maria shrugged.

"Beautiful Maria of my heart, listen to me. I am not poisoning. I am marinating myself for love. I am inviting passion."

"Whatever," Maria said and pulled out cigs.

"What about you?" Maria asked Clair. Clair nodded.

"What?"

Stella interrupted and waved off with her hand. "She doesn't speak English."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"How do you know her then?"

"I don't."

"What?"

"Yes, what? I don't know her. She just sat here just like you, and now we are having this Mexican standoff or something where you two are holding me and blocking me from finding my passion."

There was a group of male friends sitting across the bar—the dark alternative rock music bar. One of the guys, Joe, was looking at Clair and said to the boys, "I will dazzle her."

His friend said to him, "She doesn't speak English. She is French."

"Oh, bummer. Well, it doesn't matter. I will walk up, say my name. Then we will strike up a conversation."

"How, dude? She doesn't speak English."

"Oh yeah, right."

"Maybe I could go there and ask to buy her a drink, and then I will say to her in French something."

"How do you even know French, Joe?"

"Not really, but you know when you drink a little bit, it goes easier."

"What does?"

"The languages. I will go say buongiorno or something like that and then introduce myself, and we will talk from there."

"I can't with you, man. Listen, Mark, I don't know how you do it over there in your hillbilly Balkans, but here we do it like this."

"Okay, go on then."

"Is it for sure buongiorno?"

"Yes, yes."

"How do you say it in your language, Mark?"

"Say what?"

"Hello or something."

"We say it Zdravo or Ciao."

"UUUU, yes, I will go over there and say Ciao to her. She will fall for that, man. Look at her. She is a sucker for that sophisticated stuff."

"Don't use my language for your stupid stuff."

"You will see. I will use it and use it hard."

He returned quicker than he went over. "She doesn't speak English," said Joe, surprised.

"Who would have guessed?" said Mark.

"Yeah, yeah, how is work, Mark?"

"My boss and I are currently going over this long list of potential buyers, so it is not easy."

"I never knew what you were selling."

"Don't worry about it," with a mimicking Italian New York accent.

"Ahahha, you always say that. I love it."

Mark's boss, Smith, was at headquarters of the secret spy agency as always. He for a second wondered if Sophia was wanting to see him. But then he returned to the work task at hand. He was checking if it was possible that his colleague Mark was actually a double spy and that he actually just works for his home country in the Balkans.

After a long day, at 1am, he texted Sophia if she was up.

No response.

He went there, and in front of Sophia's dad's bakery he was looking around to see if she was maybe there.

He noticed her father just walking around. Before entering or waving at Ludwig, Smith decided to observe. It was in this moment that he learned that Sophia's father had his nose full of flour for some reason.

Smith's brain was confused, but also determined. He is never going to bake cakes if flour can get in your nose so much.