There’s a jangle of coins extracted from pockets and a thud of balls released from their cage. A man, lean and animated, pulls the pleather shroud from the table. His companion, stocky and garrulous, dusts up the rubber nub of his cue with a chalky blue square. On the big screen behind them footballers thrust and parry, the francophone commentators wrestling with their compound Slavic consonants. It’s early on Friday evening and the pandemic having pruned the bar of its usual post-swim trade the genial barman has little else to do but pull up a stool. He brings two sweating pintjes with him, placing them on a table next to the players. 

Cues chalked and balls racked - white with red dots, red with white dots - the short man and his lean friend commence to circle the table. Their gameplay is haphazard, taking turns to navigate their balls around the cushions and two clumps of aluminium buffers at either end. A player leans over a rumpled cloth surface less Crucible Theatre green than Color of Money aquamarine. He crouches low, forefinger pushing glasses back onto bridge of nose and cue threading an archway made by middle and index finger. He rises, surveys the results and returns to half-watching the match while his opponent takes his place. The low hum of the TV is interrupted only by the clack and thud of cue, ball, and cushion, by the occasional yelp escaping from the pool downstairs, and by the evening storm gathering itself outside the window. 

Conversation turns distractedly to football. The barman says Busquets is too old. The lean player rolls around the name of the Czech goalscorer. The stout one in seesawing tones condemns the corrosive decadence hampering Belgium’s performance. The barman rouses himself, crosses the room to the bar. He reaches into a mini fridge, skips past the Orval, Goose IPA, and Karmeliet, and returns to the billiards table with two more dripping bottles of Jupiler. Play accelerates and balls disappear into holes. Someone wins and the game degenerates into aimless potting.

A tangle of bedraggled children run up the stairs, announcing the end of this evening’s swimming class and trailing in their wake the sweet-salty memories of afterschool Monday afternoons, stinging red eyes and shaming side-long looks. The barman gets up to dole out Haribos, paprika chips and Cote D’Or chocolate to children with the means to buy them. They troop back downstairs in a cacophonous Dutch grumble.  

Another jangle of coins. The barman reaches over the billiards table to fix a light against the intruding gloom. Balls are re-racked and the pacing recommences. On the screen the players battle each other to a stalemate. The screams from the yard below dissipate into the muggy air. There’s a purse of lips, eyes squint, and the last sup of beer is downed. A watch strains manfully around a flexed wrist as cue glides between thumb and forefinger and the pair recommence moving their ivory balls across the soft turquoise baize.