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A long ago day, in a quaint little café
with hardwood floors and sculpted chairs.
Cappuccino machines gurgle;
a myriad of books piled everywhere.
The tall windows a living portrait
of granite gray clouds grinding over the sky.

She sits across the glossy table
thoughts twisting in cerulean eyes.
Pale fingers daintily pinch
the head of a black plastic bishop.
Her will is set, but doubts prevail.

She moves, index pirouetting on the piece
while she seeks unforeseen consequence.
Bare half second
I unsteeple my fingers, and move.
The rain is reflected in stark eyes
for a fraction of a breath.

The idea alights a spark.

I see her knavish plot plain,
but play into it nonetheless.
"What is that?" She asks all awhisper,
finger pointing toward the dark outside.

I twist and search, but there is nothing to see
but wet cars, crystal beads on glass.
Alas I hear the scuff. I bend back.
And the tables are now turned.

I sit nearer the black king now.
Played into a trap I see too well.
And her eyes are all innocence.
I move the dark rook, thinking,
Ah, what the hell?

19 September 2003