• It’s Wednesday evening again, and I’m waiting at my table as always. The chessboard sits, the old ivory pieces catching the light that comes in from the windows. I pick up the black bishop, rolling it between my fingers, waiting for my opponent to arrive. Suddenly, yet not abruptly, I cease to hear the birds chirping and the rustle of leaves outside my window, as I do every Wednesday. I glance at the ornate grandfather clock, ticking away in its case…an ever moving train, with no destination. It’s omnipresent somehow. There are some who say chess is a game as old as kings…how fitting.

    The girl looks at me, bruises on her arms and messy strawberry-blonde hair that falls to her shoulders. She has freckles sprinkled about her cheeks beneath her eyes; black pools littered with white shapes that look like spirits.

    Looking into her eyes I wonder if time stopped for a moment…

    She makes the first move, and I follow, neither of us saying a word. We play our first few turns in silence. It’s a distant silence, the kind that we’re used to.

    “A teenage girl,” I mutter, moving my knight to take her pawn. “How tragic.” She moves her rook, taking my knight. She toys with it a second before putting it down with two of my other pieces.

    “It’s not the most depressing person you’ve seen me as,” she says quietly, her eyes returning to the board.

    “How did this one go?”

    “Beaten to death by her boyfriend.” She pauses for a moment as if thinking something over. “She was a month pregnant.”

    “And you didn’t cry, did you.” I say solemnly. She shakes her head moving her queen.

    “No, I didn’t cry. I never cry.” She doesn’t look at me.

    “I suppose you’ve had a lot of time to get used to it.” She shrugs and glances back at my hand.

    “Your move.”

    We play for about an hour. We both know how long the game will wind up taking. We should. We’ve been playing like this as long as anyone can remember, dead or alive. Many people would wonder why we play like this each week. We both know who wins in the end so what’s the point in playing the game? You could say my opponent intrigues me. The reality of it is we’re both too curious about one another. That’s the way it’s always been, and no doubt the way it will always be.

    “Do you think it makes sense for humans to fear death?” I glance at her, realizing for the first time she’s looking at me. Just looking at me. I can feel her gaze as clearly as though it had brushed against my skin, cold and universal…and sad. Always sad.

    “Well every fear is illogical in some way or another…” I start, trying myself to understand the instinct all people have. Every living thing fears death at some point.

    “That’s not what I mean.” Her voice is eerie and peaceful filled with an emotion I can’t know. “Should they fear death?”

    I look at her, trying to keep my face devoid of stupidity. “I wouldn’t know.” I’m surprised we’ve had a conversation that’s extended beyond a few mumbles. “Don’t you know better than anyone?” She smiles at me.

    “But you’ve met me, so shouldn’t you be able to judge for yourself?” I don’t have an answer to that. Mainly because I know she has a point.

    “So what’s the answer then?” she asks. There really isn’t anymore I can say. I just watch that faint smile come back across her face. “Even I don’t know if they should be afraid.” I start to understand now.

    “It’s what comes after the end that’s the true unknown…isn’t it?” She nods and moves her queen and we shift back into the familiarity of our silent game.

    The sun sinks slowly below the window of my library as we finish. It may just be me, but it seems like we might have played for a little longer this time.

    My opponent gets up and stretches out her pale, bruised arm. I don’t get it until her deep black eyes will me to look at her hand. I’m still not entirely sure what I should do. Has she ever offered me her hand before?

    “Good game,” she says, her voice seeming just a little brighter. I still hesitate, but finally I reach out and grab it.

    I’m not sure what to expect when our flesh meets for the first time. I had imagined it would have burned me, like all the fires of Hell. Or that it would be cold, like the icy snow beneath a tombstone in winter. It’s just as it appears, a frail, human, hand. It’s astounding to think how little strength it would take to break it.

    We shake, and though she tried to hide it, I can see the look of surprise on her face. It makes me wonder what my hand feels like. “Good game,” I murmur. She turns and leaves, not giving me or the chessboard another look. She goes like she always does, in such a way that I can never remember it.

    Maybe it’s because of our odd conversation, or the fact that she shook my hand for the first time, but it just seems that I did a little better for myself. I lean my head back and glance out the library window. The sun feels good after experiencing the frosty disposition of my partner. Of course she won as she always does. She always will get the better of me in the end. The way she plays is like a bored hunter toying with his prey, and I’ll always be the one running from her. People would think I should know by now, and I do. All too well it seems. You can’t beat death.