Amsterdam (a true story)

I do not remember it now.
Not as it was.
Only as it might have been.
The room in which the game was played.
We sat on barrels.
Upturned and lower than was comfortable.
The game was already set.
Each piece in place.
You had moved me again.
Into the darkness.
I hadn't understood the first time it happened.
But now I knew what this meant.
It was just in case.
In case anyone saw me.
Your piece.
In partial shadow, you left me alone.
Went to the bar.
Ordered the usual.
Two beers.
Money exchanged.
You returned.
Straddled the barrel.
I was white. It was my turn first.
You urged me to get on with it.
Your eyes.
I could never read what was behind them.
Never understood what triggered it.
Surely it was safe now?
To play a game?

Amsterdam (a true story)

In the daytime?
Nothing could happen today.
Could it?
I moved.
You moved.
We drank.
Minutes passed in silence.
Suddenly the door opened.
Another man entered.
Staggered into you.
By mistake.
Knocked the bishop out of your hand.
That was it.
Game over.
You swore.
Smashed the board with one blow.
Up into the air.
Pieces flew.
Crashed to the floor.
I would remember them later.
Remember the bishop.
With the cracked skull.
As I lay on the floor.
Begging you to stop.