ANTAR #016

The beach believed in spectacle. It was sometime in 1985, and everything shimmered with intention—sunlight, sunglasses, ambition. Miami, or something very much like it, hummed in neon and salt. Radios competed with waves. Towels announced personality. Volleyballs behaved like small flying decisions. ANTAR walked along the shoreline, unhurried, carrying nothing but the same bag that had outlived better decades. He did not look like the eighties. The eighties noticed. A group of players leapt near the net, all energy and sunburned competitiveness. The ball escaped its assignment, arcing wide—past the boundary, past expectation—landing gently into ANTAR’s path. He caught it without drama. The beach paused. The players stared. Someone removed sunglasses. Someone else stopped mid-laugh. ANTAR examined the ball as if confirming its structural integrity. He bounced it once. Approved. The girls jogged toward him, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Hey!” one called out. “Game’s that way.” ANTAR nodded, thoughtful, as if considering joining a league across centuries. For a brief moment, he walked in the opposite direction, ball tucked under his arm. They quickened their pace. Then, just before the moment turned into confrontation, ANTAR turned back and tossed the ball in a perfect arc—clean, effortless, unnecessary. Applause broke out from nowhere in particular. He adjusted his scarf. The heat did not object. He continued down the beach as if volleyball had always been temporary. Behind him, the game resumed—slightly sharper, slightly louder. For reasons no one could explain, every serve that followed felt more deliberate. ANTAR did not look back. End of Log #016