Flirting in Space

The man’s eyes lit up as soon as he saw the lacquered chessboard refracting the dim light of the bar. The barman’s eyebrow arched. The man coughed and adjusted his expression back into neutrality. 

“I’ve only played casually before,” the man said sitting down on the bar stool, and eyeing the familiar pieces, then with a pious tone. “Not nearly enough for a purgatory game.”

“Oh,” the bartender replied setting up the board. “Should we change game then?”

“No,” the man said quickly. “This is fine.”

“Black or white?” 

The man forced a smile. “You decide.”

The bartender turned the board so the black pieces faced him. 

“You must be good,” the man said. “I heard that black is more difficult.” 

The bartender didn’t answer. The man tapped his finger lightly waiting for a response, but it didn’t come. 

“Well,” the bartender finally said. “Are you going to start?”

“Oh right right,” the man reached for the king’s pawn first, sliding it forward without hesitation. His fingers stroked the lacquered top before letting go. 

The bartender mirrored him. 

Relief rushed through the man. This was going to be a predictable game. 

He developed his knight next, then his bishop, swift clean movements with barely any thought between them. The pieces clicked softly against the board. Across from him, the bartender played slower. Never pausing long enough to seem uncertain, but just long enough that the man began leading the game with growing confidence. 

“You play often?” The man asked as he castled early. 

The bartender moved a pawn. 

The man took it as a hint of forced concentration from his opponent and suppressed a smile at the defensive move. 

His rook entered the game smoothly after. He controlled the centre now, black pieces boxed tighter and tighter into smaller available squares. Every move felt frictionless. Logical. Structured. He could already feel the shape of the ending before it arrived. 

The bartender sacrificed a knight. 

The man’s eyebrows lifted as he took it instantly. Reckless. 

Three moves later, the bartender’s bishop disappeared too. 

Now the man fully relaxed into the stool. One hand loosened from the board to straighten his tie while the other lazily rolled a captured pawn between his fingers. 

“You know,” he said lightly. “Most people focus too much on individual pieces. You need to be able to see the whole board.”

The bartender finally looked up at him. 

The man moved his queen into position with great satisfaction. Check.

A few exchanges later, the board narrowed exactly the way he liked it. Controlled movements. Limited possibilities. The bartender’s king shuffled another square back.

Checkmate. 

Silence settled across the board. 

The man leaned back with a small exhale, unable to suppress the smugness now stretched across his face. “Well,” he said, sliding his finger along the edge of the board. “This wasn’t nearly as life altering as I expected.”

The bartender reset the board.

Then removed every pawn.

“Still want to play white?” The bartender asked. 

The man glanced at all the squares of the ghost pawns, twirling his tie. “It’ll be a shorter game.”

“Will it?” 

The man huffed, then reached for his usual opening, but the pawn was a ghost and his hand slipped slightly on the invisible piece. He jerked his hand narrowing his eyes checking that the bartender hadn’t caught this erratic movement. Hesitating for a moment on the pieces available, he  moved the knight into its usual opening square. 

The bartender snatched the piece instantly. 

“Normally,” the man slammed his palm a little too hard against the table. “You’d have to move before taking mine.”

“Thought you said you needed to be able to see the whole board,” the bartender replied, then played his move. “This one is a goner.”

“You can’t just —” 

The bartender scratched his head. “Your turn.”

Drumming his fingers against the table, the man thought out his next move. But thinking about the satisfaction his opponent was getting from his hesitation irritated him and he moved quickly to defend the king. Knights. Bishops. Muscle memory.

After a few more turns, most of the mans pieces had been taken away. 

“I can still get out of this.” He said, looking at the losing side of his board. “If I just…”

“Just play.”

“This isn’t how the game develops.” The man said angrily, loosening his tie to scratch his neck. 

“It is now.” 

After a few more moves, it was clear that the man had lost. 

“This was so stupid,” he huffed. “Get me a drink. Whiskey.” 

The bartender reset the board. 

Then removed all the knights. 

“I’m not playing again,” the man narrowed his eyes. “Everything is different. This isn’t even chess.” 

“The pieces still move the same.”

The man wiped his hands against his pants before shoving the bishop forward. The piece squeaked against the lacquered board. With each turn, he launched more and more offensive attacks and overprotected his king, forcing structure back into the broken down game. 

But in the end, he lost again. 

The bartender reset the board. 

Then removed the diagonals.

The man’s fists curled and he grabbed a rook and slammed it on the desired square. Fingers trembling with anticipation of making the next move. 

But the bartender snatched the rook away. 

“This piece is moist.” The bartender replied, wiping his hand with a napkin and continued to make his turn. 

For the rest of the game, the man moved without considering strategy. Constantly glancing at his king like it would disappear if he didn’t concentrate hard enough on it. 

He lost. Again. 

The bartender reset the board. 

Then removed the rooks. 

Taking off and throwing his jacket onto the ground, the man loosened the tie against his neck. But he felt himself burning and itching and decided to rip it off and drop it onto the floor with the rest. He picked up the chess piece, but it slid from his sweaty palms and dropped onto the board. 

“Which square is this supposed to be?” The bartender asked, examining the piece that lay between the lines. 

“Does that even matter anymore?” The man grumbled. 

“In chess, it does.” 

“This isn’t even chess!”

“The rules are the same.” 

After a few more rounds, the man lost once more. His heart was pounded. Neck still itched. Callouses roughened his fingers.

The bartender reset the board.

Then left only the kings. 

“What the —” the man grit his teeth. 

“Play.”

Wincing against the calloused pain in his fingers, the friction of the piece grinding against them, the man charged his king toward the bartender’s. “Why don’t you win this one too and reset the board again.”

The bartender moved his king one square back.