check mate

They unroll the square chess mat on the round table. And they play. The younger one in a wool watch cap; the elder wears a black, sweater vest. A lone friend watches. He is older, too. Billie Holliday sings over the top of them, not so as they’d know it was her, exactly. The younger taps his foot, but not to the music. Nervously. The older rests his chin in a thick-fingered hand. He sits, flat-footed. It’s plain to see that they aren’t father and son, not even mentor and student. And the game moves too fast for either to be masterful. But it doesn’t matter, now, does it? It’s dark and windy outside, but inside, it is calm, entertaining, maybe even a bit studious. Friendly. Friends. Nice. Who wins? Who won? Instrumental jazz, plays, now. It doesn’t matter. Check. Mate. Game. Set.