Chess

1

I play chess, off and on, though my husband hates it. Not becoming for a woman, he says. History books (Napoleon, Alexander) line his shelves; he wears slippers, something I find disgustingly unmasculine. It’s not that things have grown stale. I refuse to think that. But I count the weeks, sometimes the months. On certain days, I catch myself dreaming of his death.

2

I dream of a kind of mournful freedom. It’s recipes I think about mostly, pies and cakes, sweets so sugary they’ll take the teeth out of my mouth.Neighbours: I have them and they visit. I dote on them.

Sometimes, some stranger asks me about my now dead husband (I still wear the ring) and I have to quietly and sombrely correct them. There is a grace to my correction, of course, and they, these dream strangers, are touched by my loss, and remark how well I seem to be holding up, how well I have it all together.

3

With my husband buried, I play chess with abandon. I am better in this imagined future. I know openings back to front; certain opponents simply fold before me. But with him gone, the rebellion has gone too, and the joy, the joy has long since fled.