The Moves We Make

CW: Brief sexual content

Having forgotten his water bottle, Fischer returned to the apartment. Before he could unlock the door, something startled him, a sound he had never heard; Grace was laughing. Never once, in his many attempts to gain her affection, did he so much as manage a smile from her. This bothered him, but Fischer was comforted by the fact that his other roommates also seemed unsuccessful at eliciting her approval; Cassie and Gary seemed more interested in each other than anyone else.

Then why is she laughing, Fischer thought. He heard more laughs, this time Grace’s intermingled with those of the other two. He put his ear to the door but could not make out any conversation. Slowly, carefully, he inserted his key, turned the knob, and entered quietly. The front door was obscured from the living room, so he approached silently so as not to alert the company to his presence. There was an odd sense of quiet in the apartment, one Fischer had not experienced save for the few times he was there alone. Have they heard me? he questioned. He came to the corner of the hall that entered into the living room.

At first, all he heard was whispering. Fischer dared not come out from his spot. A soft giggle, one he assumed from Grace because of how foreign it sounded, lingered in the air for a moment. He inched closer to the corner, closing his eyes to hear better.

“He’ll be gone till late tonight,” Cassie said, her voice low. “After the library he goes to the park to play chess.” There was a pause between this and the next sentence, the space filled with heavy breathing instead of words.

Why would it matter if I were gone? Fischer wondered, confused.

“No one will interrupt,” Gary finally continued. Then a sound erupted from the living room more horrible than the laughing and even the intimate giggle; the hope for this new noise was something that Fischer had buried deep in the recesses of his soul, deeper than the desire even to make Grace laugh. In that moment, she moaned, a deep and sultry noise that made Fischer wince in his spot.

He could stand it no longer. Fischer peeked around the corner, exposing himself just enough for a glimpse. Grace had always been his crush, even before the formation of their apartment. And he had liked Gary and Cassie well enough, satisfied with their focuses being mostly on each other than himself or Grace. But the image of the three of them on the couch, tangled, bits of clothing either on the ground or being removed, mouths kissing in places that Fischer himself had never felt or given—that image was enough to break his understanding of the living arrangement and relationships he thought he had been cultivating for the past year.

He left the apartment without his water bottle.

Cassie had been right; it was Fischer’s plan to go to the park to play chess after the library. But what she had not expected was for him to see what her and Gary’s plan had been with Grace. This intersection of information resulted with Fischer going straight to the park, skipping the library entirely. Normally, he’d talk to a few of the spot’s regulars, play a few games—some for money if he needed extra cash—and be home by around 8 p.m. However, when he arrived at the park he didn’t speak to anyone. He sat down at the table he always played at and waited. Then, for the next several hours, he beat everyone who sat across from him. His fingers grew cold in the December air, and his opponents grew stronger with every match, but still, he did not lose a single game.

Fischer ran through every variation of every opening and defense he knew. He played lines in the game that he had never explored and performed each with a level of mastery that was rare for him. Whether he played white or black, whether he gave his opponents a time advantage, Fischer and his mind solved every problem and kept on winning.

The chess community in his city was relatively small, and when word got out about Fischer’s streak, a number of players came to the park to challenge him. A small crowd had even formed. On a normal night, after the library, Fischer would be home by 8:00 or 8:30 p.m., would make a late dinner, and talk to Grace about her day, if she were up to it. Cassie and Gary might come through and join the conversation, inevitably disappearing into one or the other’s room, and Fischer would try his best to interest Grace. The night would end around 10 p.m., Grace saying goodnight, leaving Fischer to wonder what he might say next time to capture her better. Instead of all of this, he played chess. He did not imagine what they were doing.

One by one, the crowd dispersed; when it was clear no one was going to beat him, the people lost interest. For a long time after they had gone, he sat at the table, looking at the pieces. It was almost midnight.

“Are you the guy nobody could beat?” a voice asked. Fischer looked up and saw an older man. He had a black tweed cap, a long overcoat, and wore glasses. He was smiling.

“That’s me,” Fischer said, looking back down at the pieces.

“I heard through the grapevine you were beating everybody, and I wanted to come see for myself.” The man sighed and sat down on the chair opposite to Fischer. “I didn’t think you’d still be here. By the time I got home from work, my wife had a list of things she needed done, then I had to make some calls to my grand kids, make dinner.” He adjusted himself in the seat until he exhaled in satisfaction, having made himself comfortable. “I’m too old to be out this late,” he said laughing.

Fischer didn’t respond. Instead, he took out his phone, set his chess clock app, and made his first move. The man narrowed his eyes at him but kept his smile.

“Not much of a talker?” he asked, responding with his own move.

Fischer, having already played this opening four times that evening, quickly made his next move. “Not tonight,” he said.

The man made a move and asked, “Why’s that?” Fischer didn’t respond. The man, seeing that his partner was not engaging, played with him in silence, the sound of their pieces on the board the only thing breaking it.

About midway through the game, Fischer recognized that his opponent was probably in the upper portion of the people he had played that night; the man made every move in a timely manner and never seemed stumped by the line they were playing.

It doesn’t matter, Fischer thought to himself. I’ve thought this out more than he ever could. This will end the same.

The game continued. Back and forth, moves were made and pieces were exchanged. The man kept his smile the entire time. They played on. The queens had already been traded—next were the bishops, then the knights. When the rooks were gone, and what remained were the kings and pawns, Fischer saw the stalemate coming in a few moves.

“That’s a draw then,” the man said, seeing the same thing. He chuckled. “They weren’t exaggerating about you!”

Fischer looked up from the board confused. On his twenty-ninth opponent that night, he recognized that the reason he was winning was because he refused to devote any more mental power to thinking about his relationship status with Grace and their roommates. For months he had been thinking of all sorts of scenarios, possibilities, and actions he might take to become closer with Grace. But that ended when he peeked around the corner.

How did this guy keep pace? he thought.

“Let’s play again,” the man said. “Oh!” he exclaimed. He then drew out a pair of gloves from his coat pocket. “I’m sorry, I had forgotten to give these to you when I sat down. The guys told me you didn’t look like you came prepared for the cold.”

Fischer looked down at his hands. They were no longer red from the cold, but their color rather looked muted; the skin on his fingers was cracking and he hadn’t noticed how difficult it was to extend them.

“Put them on son,” the man said, setting them down next to the board. Mechanically, Fischer obliged. “Don’t you have anyone at home with enough sense to send you out warmer?” the man asked.

“I’m in university,” Fischer said absently, rubbing his hands together in their new homes.

“No roommates to tell your fingers will freeze off?” the man asked laughing a little. Fischer remained silent and looked down at the board. The man pursed his lips; he said nothing more.

The pair switched their pieces, Fischer playing black, the man playing white. Upon his opponent’s request, Fischer took the clock away for this round.

“You have anyone to call before we play?” the man asked, as Fischer pocketed his phone.

“No one worth my time,” he responded coldly.

This game went much like the first; the pair stayed silent, the man kept his smile, and the audio of the encounter was marked only by the pieces moving across the board. This time, however, Fischer’s hands were warmer. Further, without the clock, they both took longer to consider between moves. And, to Fischer’s surprise, they were playing a line that was dissimilar to any others he had played that night.

A little over halfway through, the man said, “People aren’t like chess pieces.” Fischer blinked; he had been deep in thought considering the game.

“What?” he asked, looking up.

“A knight can only move in one shape,” the man continued. “And a pawn will never jump further than it’s supposed to.” His elbows were on the table with one hand up covering his mouth and chin in support; his eyes were on the board. “But people…they don’t take on one pattern. They move erratically and irrationally.”

Fischer stayed silent, looking at the man confused. He shook his head and continued to focus on the board, making a move after a moment more. The man responded in an instant with his own.

“I used to think that I could think out all of my relationships,” the man continued. Fischer was still stunned that he had moved so quickly but tried to remain composed. “I’d plan out conversations, think about people and the way they acted, and move accordingly.”

Fischer was only half listening at this point, concentrating on the game; the man’s move was good. He finally settled on something that made sense and moved his bishop. The man stayed silent for a while after this, his hand still as a support, his eyes never leaving the board.

Hah, Fischer thought. Gotcha.

“It wasn’t until I met my wife that I learned that there is no winning in real relationships,” the man said, making another move at the same time. Fischer was again shocked the man had found a response.

“Of course there is,” Fischer said, irritated. He looked up at the man who was now, frustratingly, looking up at the sky.

“It looks like it’s gonna—”

“—some people get all the benefits of relationship, and some people get nothing. Winners and losers.” Fischer said, cutting him off. He moved his bishop again.

“Oh sure,” the man said, returning his attention to the board. “But a lot of those benefits come and go.” He made a move, and after a moment, Fischer’s stomach sank. It would be a long sequence, the man would have to play perfectly, but if he saw what Fischer saw, then checkmate was guaranteed.

“Those things,” the man continued, “can be swapped between people as quickly as we’ve traded pieces. And if you play with people like that, you don’t always get anything in return.” He made the first correct move in the sequence, taking a pawn. “There’s only one benefit that can’t be traded.”

“I suppose you’ll say love,” Fischer said bitterly. He moved his king.

“Whatever the benefit is called,” the man said, chuckling, making the second correct move in the sequence, “it has to be given, not gained.” He looked at Fischer across the board. “And it definitely can’t be captured.”

Fischer, shaking his head, asked, “And what can be done to be given such a thing? What must I do?” He moved a pawn.

The man made the third correct move. “Find the right people. And then trust that they’ll give it to you.” He looked up from the board and smiled. “In my experience, though, the right people would have called by now.” The man’s phone then buzzed and he pulled it from his coat.

Before Fischer could move, a snowflake fell on his glove. Then another. And then four more. All at once, snow fell from the heights of the December night. The man was looking up, snow falling on his glasses, and smiling. Fischer looked down at the board. The squares were no longer separated by color, all of them adopting the snow.

“Let’s call it another draw,” the man said standing up. “I’ve already stayed too long and have to get home to my wife.” He looked down at the snow-covered board. “We’re not really playing a game anymore anyway,” the man said, winking. “And you can’t win when there’s no game.” He began walking away, but before he was gone, he turned and called out, “But you can’t lose either! Keep the gloves!”

Fischer looked down at his hands. Despite the long exposure they had to the cold, in the gloves, they were warm. He stood up and took a deep breath. Looking around at the other chess tables, all he saw were white sheets of snow.

No more moves, he thought. He looked back to his own board, quickly disappearing under the snow, and began collecting his pieces. When he reached his king, he knocked it on its side.