Sunday, November 15, 2009
When he reached zugzwang, he resisted the urge to upend the chess board. The bishop, the king—any move and it’s checkmate. Fracturing a morning of raspberry scones, Sumatra blend coffee. He looked across the board at his opponent, grey beard but younger, biting his upper lip waiting. There’s a new Grandmaster of Wharf Street, he thought. To his left, a trash truck moved, revealing egg yolk sun peaking over oily water.