Chess

Dear Nondescript Blonde Girl I Made Out With At A Nondescript Lower East Side Bar Last Week,

I may owe you an apology, and this has been on my mind for the better part of five days.

You see, it wasn't right for me to sneak out of the bar like that at the end of the night without saying goodbye. But, in fairness, you forced my hand. You see, I spent the first few hours I knew you mostly trying to shed you with the old textbook pick-and-roll move I learned playing basketball -- so that I could talk to your much cuter roommate. You didn't seem to get the hint, which may not be entirely your fault, because I'm a relatively friendly guy and not very good at sending people the "BACK OFF" signal. But for every bit I tried to lose you, you'd try doubly hard not to get lost. And then I'd have to step it up and try harder. As the night wore on, it became an all-out arms race.

It got to the point where you were buying me drinks -- multiple, stiff drinks -- to get me drunk. You complained if I wanted a light beer, and called my masculinity into question. When I didn't drink it fast enough for your liking, you chastised me for "nursing it." At some point I vaguely remember thinking "I'M NOT A GIRL, WE'RE NOT IN HIGH SCHOOL, AND THIS ISN'T THE PROM."

To be honest though, I commend you for your effort. As I look back, I can see how well thought-out all of this was. I mean, first you get me drunk, and you do so subtly, by ordering me the strongest alcohol you think I'll actually drink, and you gauge it just right. Knight to C8. Then, when you finally figured out that I was interested in your roommate, it was smart of you to call her out on a bunch of stuff, pick a fight with her, and get her to leave. Rook to A6. Genius. Seriously. You then move us to a more crowded and darker bar where you could make your move. Bishop to E3. You're looking like Gary fucking Kasparov at this point, and I'm struggling to keep my liquor down and keep myself upright so I don't topple and knock all of pieces off the board. This was a masterful rout. Then you start mining my molars for gold, and I'm too stupid and/or drunk to resist, and at this point, I'm actually starting to fall prey to your "charms." I'm starting to think, "yeah, ya know, maybe, yeah. I mean why not." I've most definitely done dumber things in my life.

So here we are, you've got my king lined up for the taking, you've convinced me not to leave a dozen times, and you're all but thinking you've got me bagged here. On my 13th attempt to leave, you follow me out and say "ok sure," and follow that by whispering something into my ear that no proper lady should know how to say. QUEEN TO D-FUCKING-8...

With that, and with me teetering on the brink of disaster, you reach across the table to make your final move. I walk down the stairs first, fighting through a crowd, and you were a little behind. I get to the landing and look up just in time to watch your heel miss that first step. And, just like that, the best laid plans went awry...

As you came barreling down the stairs LIKE A HERD OF DRUNKEN, WILD ELEPHANTS, shedding every ounce of grace or style or intrigue that you may have had before that first fateful step, grasping and groping at a railing or a person in between tumbles (SERIOUSLY, WHY BOTHER AT THAT POINT?), leading up to your ultimate faceplant at my feet, it all became clear to me. I considered helping you up, but there you lay in the aftermath, surrounded by the shrapnel of the pieces you'd aligned so delicately all night, and a tangled web of what was your pride and dignity. And I slowly, quietly, backed away, into the crowd, then out the door, then into a cab. ALONE.

CHECKMATE, NONDESCRIPT BLONDE GIRL.