The day was bright, with that clear sky that comes after several days of rain. The air smelled of wet earth and damp leaves, and the two friends, in their thirties, walked along the paths of the allotment, their beers still thrumming in their heads. They laughed, pushed each other gently, advancing between climbs and descents that seemed more complicated than they really were, due to dizziness.

The path was damp, the earth sticky. Each step in sandals made a popping sound: the soles stuck and came loose, allowing mud to seep between the toes. At first, only their feet were marked, the insteps and ankles dotted with small dark stains. Their shirts and shorts remained more or less clean, with only faint traces of damp dust.

But soon came the first stumble. One of them tried to jump a narrow puddle, but the beer's aftertaste worked against him: his foot sank deep, splashing mud up to his calf, and as he tried to balance himself, he fell flat on his face. His light-colored shirt was stained brown in the front, especially on his chest and abdomen, while the right side of his shorts was completely muddy. His hands, as he tried to support himself, ended up with sticky mud on his skin, embedded with small pebbles.

The other, still laughing, bent down to help him. But when he pulled on his arm, he slipped too, falling on top of his friend. Now the scene was twofold: the first was muddy in front, and the second, upon falling, was left with a large wet stain on his entire back, as if he had a layer of dark dirt stuck to the fabric of his shirt. His shorts, once clean, now bore two clear marks: mud on the back and splashes on his thighs.

They continued along the path laughing, pushing each other, resigned to the stains. Each stretch of the trail made them a little dirtier: fresh mud stuck to their toes, the soles of their feet, and every so often a wet branch left wet lines on their arms or necks.

On one particularly slippery descent, the slope overcame them. They slid more than walked, their sandals sloshing in the mud. One of them lost first one, then the other, which remained behind, sunk in the soft earth. Now barefoot, each step became a new brown footprint on his skin. His shirt, as it rubbed against the ground during the fall, was also stained on the left side, and his knees were completely covered. The other, who managed to stay halfway upright, was splashed all over his lower body: his shorts were splattered to the hem, his calves were mottled, and one arm was muddied up to the elbow.

When they finally arrived back at the house, the heat of the day enveloped them, causing the wet mud to dry in patches on their clothes and skin. They looked at each other and couldn't help but laugh: their shirts no longer had a single clean spot, their shorts were marked front and back, and their feet, especially those of the man who had lost his sandals, looked like clay sculptures. Their arms and knees bore irregular stains, and even one of their hair had small leaves and wet dust stuck to them.

Exhausted, they collapsed onto the grass, still warm from the sun. The contrast was perfect: the coolness of the grass against their damp skin and the warmth of the sun drying the stains. They opened new beers and toasted, their clothes a mess but their spirits high. Amid laughter and affectionate words, they settled shoulder to shoulder, hugging each other like old friends. Little by little, the murmur of conversation faded, and fatigue overcame them.

They fell asleep there, covered in mud, smelling of damp and beer, but with the serenity of those who know that the best stories aren't planned: they simply stumble across them along the way.