THE WHITE...
I grew up in the Bronx surrounded by all these people who were considered disgusting. Really dirty. One of them is Lenon, a gentleman closer to death than life. Unusually, I sympathize with him more than any younger person.
- Ten blows and you beat me - said Lenon.
I watch the board between us, calculating the moves I need to make to checkmate while trying to anticipate his moves.
Yes I see that. But how fun would that be? I take my pawn in E2.
- No - he growls.
And he gives me the same look I've seen since I was a kid, when he was acting up around the neighborhood. But I can't resist. Unable to hold back my smile, I ignore it and go to E4. He lets out a sigh and shakes his head, exasperated by the lack of control and strategy he's failed to teach me all those long afternoons.
I like to be meticulous and certain when I do something, but sometimes that makes me predictable. And more dangerous than impulse is foresight.
Loud music echoes outside the workshop. I can see everything, but I refuse to participate. When racing was about cars, I liked that. But now there are rich kids begging for an opportunity to sink into the dark world and, when they realize it sucks, go back to their mansions.
Call girls, too poor to buy even a piece of meat, mingle with anyone else in their twenties who can afford a three hundred dollar bottle of vodka or champagne, just to be able to sit at a fucking table. .
Maybe if I had been a normal person at some point in my life I would have liked that, but now I'm with Lenon, playing his dusty old game because he dedicated his life to caring poor children so that there is nothing left in his life, old age, just play.
Eighty-nine years old, gray goatee and the same black suits he always wore. He's one of the few people I care about at least to some degree. I would do business with him. I would trust anything he had to say. I would go to his funeral. There aren't a lot of people I would go through all this trouble for. But we're not friends and we've never discussed anything personal. He teaches me things, but he never complicates things by trying to be my father.
As Mr. Lenon considers his next move, I turn my head toward the street. Something catches my eye, and it's not cars or half-naked women. It's highlights of light hair and even lighter skin.
I look at the board, telling myself that I'm studying the game. I end up making a random movement, then my eyes turn to her. Is there. Angelic is there, and I can tell because I spent a lot of time looking at his photos, studying his features. I know her.
She's in pajamas, huddled next to a car as if she could blend in. Angelic tries not to attract the attention of all those creepy people, so far removed from his reality. But, unfortunately, she is not the kind of woman who goes unnoticed.
What would your boyfriend say about that?
Angelic fixes a group in the back of a van. A couple kiss while the surrounding group ignores them, each focused on their own shit. The guy touches the woman's hips lightly and shyly as his mouth slides over her shoulder, probably trying to hold back.
Angelic looks away, probably thinking he's invading their privacy. She looks like a scared rabbit, and that impresses me. Angelic tries so hard to look strong that her weakness catches my eye.
Turning back to the chessboard, I see that Lenon has matched my move with his pawn at E5. I smile