Why I Love Chess

At times, I feel that writing to you and with you, is like playing a game of chess. You’re white and I’m black, yet we are playing on the same side. Yet trying to outmanoeuvre each other. Wanting to checkmate and yet not wanting a sudden death.

Castle.

Other times I feel like our conversations have forks. Multiple forks. A move could lose my Queen. My pawn is in danger just by the virtue of being there, in the way of a very complex game that it has no knowledge being a part of.

Pin.

You cannot move your Bishop. No funny diagonal detours, off the beaten track remarks. Gavagai! (Not a bad bishop, just a confused one)

I dither. You dither. I’m having fun. Some kind of odd enjoyment finding someone who can pick up what I have not said. Who can read my play three moves ahead.

oct bazaar li bingbing 5

Aah, Queen in the corner. Queen. In. The. Corner. We love that, don’t we? We carry on our conversations. Pardon, I mean, game.

En passant.

What are we not mentioning? What is worth mentioning?

En prise (swear word! swear word!)

J’adoube. Touch move! Don’t touch. You touched! (Where am I going with this?)

“Caïssa was with me.” Yet you don’t believe in deities, do you? This is fast becoming a coffeehouse play. Let’s not turn it into a dead draw.

Yet I’m afraid it might be. Should we invoke the Sofia Rules?

This is not sans voir, although sans anything would undoubtedly liven up this game.

At times I’m feeling as if I am checkmated over and over again. Yet I don’t seem to mind. Isn’t that strange? I hate losing.

I press down the button on the chess clock. Your turn.

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