The Woman

THE WOMAN

A big Hungarian man shoves me from across the table; it’s an explosive shove, but it’s expected. I have, after all, been eyeing his woman for hours. I can understand his ire, but her smooth, dark mahogany complexion and sensual curves cloud my mind and judgment. She stays close to me, almost as if she’s already left him; but she keeps her face wooden, not letting on. She comes near, lingers, and moves by. I follow her here, trail after her there. Finally, she backs herself into a corner and beckons me; I go to her and draw myself close, so close I can almost touch, almost caress her. I want her.
Then that violent jolt comes, yanking me back to reality: her brute is in my face, pushing me back. He poises to strike, but I sidestep. He repositions himself, but again I move away. Frustrated, he lunges with fury directly at me, but in his frenzy he missteps, stumbling forward and throwing himself off balance. I react with terminal force. His body goes limp and his eyes glaze over. He now sees he’s lost her to me, lost his most precious and powerful companion, and his resistance ends. She is mine now. I reach out, slide my hand gently around her, and lift his queen from the chessboard.