What do you mean, “check”? Again? It’s always like that. I think I’m winning and, boom, Uncle M reverses our fortunes at the last minute, and then stares at me, badly hiding a smirk.
I’ve been playing with him all my life, which isn’t that long, but still. Can I win at least once?
I move my hand in protest and almost upset the chessboard, which is perilously balanced over a pile of dusty books. I need to tap my fingers on something. No free space. Every piece of furniture I own seems to be covered with papers, gadgets, magazines or books falling to pieces (I get most of them from recycling bins or second hand stores.)
—I really think I should get a digital reader, I say, slyly.
—Don’t you dare, answers an incensed Uncle M. Check.
Finally, my eyes land on a beaten copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula—Twilight fans: don’t even dare talk to me—I grab it and balance it on my right leg, while tapping on it with both hands. I feel soothed. Go ahead, Mate, I can take it now.
But Uncle M has not moved. Something is wrong. Maybe he has been bluffing. Maybe his check is not real, just a little maneuver to check my alertness. Or maybe…Maybe I forgot to make my move.
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