Chess

Meanwhile, I walked back from a late, greasy dinner to my studio in Kensington. I stopped at a café where people where smoking and laughing on the outdoor tables and went in to see if they had cannoli.

I've been here before. It's a charming little places with an atmosphere that promises much better coffee than you'll actually get. They do pizza, and the waitresses sound Italian, but they don't have any cannoli. I got a hot chocolate instead.

At the table by the window, two men are concentrating over a chess board. They both look in their fifties and divorced. They've brought their own digital chess clock, so they probably know what they're doing. Also, there's the look in their eyes. The board is everything to them. Thousands of possible futures are ticking through their inner vision: areas of play, possible weaknesses, exchanges that must be made. I've never been good at chess, but I miss that deep, all-encompassing concentration.

I didn't talk to them. I thought of hovering silently until I could at least see who was winning, but it was getting late and I don't think they would have liked it. I just took my hot chocolate and left, my thoughts scattering in hundred different directions.