“That which is most desired,” she says.

He sets up the board; pawns and rooks and knights.

He stretches out his closed hands, offering a choice. A finger taps one of them, and a choice is made.

He opens his hands, looks at the pieces in them, and nods at the board, “You’re white.”

“I’ve found,” he begins, “the perfect girl, and I can’t figure out how to get her to talk to me.”

Across the board, his friend giggles, “Are you being serious, I wonder?”

“As a coma,” he says, as he makes his first move.

“Do tell.”

“You know I’ve been playing one of those games on the Internet.”

“Goober, I think you said.”

“Yes, Goober. Well, the shape of the game is numbers; we add friends to advance, and we delete them when we’re done. I’ve been deleting the ugly pictures, adding all the pretty ones; she was one of pretty ones.”

“You delete the ugly ones?”

“Yes. My interaction with almost all of them is entirely their picture on my screen as I play. That being that, I want that experience to be as pleasant as possible. Most of them don’t even speak English. It doesn’t matter to me how ugly – or pretty, for that matter – they are in real life, all I care about is that one tiny picture that appears on my screen.”

“Of course,” she replies, “So you’re not a bad person at all.”

“Anyway, somehow or other, I found myself on her profile page – probably to get a better look at the pretty picture – and she has this quote from one of my favourite movies,” he leans back against his chair as he ponders the board, “so I message her.”

“And so it begins.”

“Not quite; we exchange quotes for a bit, and then she stopped replying.”

“And so it ends.”

“Again, not quite. The next day, she switched on her chat, which is like messaging, but slightly more immediate. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I remember this, I asked her if that picture was her, and she said that it was. Lots of people use models as their pictures, see? And I thought that she did too.”

She stretches a finger over the board, taps a piece, “You’re using Bonetti’s defence against me, ah?” She moves a piece.

“I thought it fitting, considering–”

“Wait,” she interrupts, with her finger, floating above the board, held up for emphasis. “You think that she’s the perfect girl because she really is as pretty as her picture?”

“No, it’s more than that. A few days ago, in a moment of madness, I posted online; assuming ‘witty’ and ‘hot’ is too much to ask, should one give up ‘witty’ or ‘hot’? And there was this discussion, so the topic was somewhat on my mind. Two days after that, on someone’s conversation, I wrote, ‘We all need dreams. Someday, I shall meet a girl who understands the importance of good tea and better grammar.’ So these thoughts were near the top of my head, right? Tip of mind. Then two days after that, I chatted with her, and she said that she looked as she did and that she was going to make some… tea.”

“How many people drink tea, I wonder?”

“Lots of people do, I know that, but the whole thing floored me. It’s not like I go around listing the traits of the perfect girl every day, and, within two days, I’ve laid out four very specific traits. How often do you think anyone defines their perfect girl?”

“I have no idea.,” she lifts up a piece, places it down. “Oh!” she says, “You defined your perfect girl and, just like that, she turns up?”

“Just like that!“

“It’s too good to be true.”

“Which follows that it can’t be true, right? Life doesn’t happen like this.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

“Do? There’s nothing to do. I can’t figure out how to get her to talk to me. It’s a crush, I’ll get over it.”

“Okay, then.”

Turn by turn, the pieces move.

“Checkmate,” she says.

He lies in bed and he is thinking.

He is thinking – Witty, hot, the importance of good tea and better grammar.

We all have a shopping list in our heads, in our hearts, of what our dream mate would be like, but no one really expects that, do they? The perfect confluence of traits.

It’s more than that, as well, the traits that we don’t list, well, they could be the important ones. The traits that we don’t notice, but are the traits that allow them to want to be with us, to love us. Traits like being athletic, or not so, being introverted or extroverted, or how much cleaning should be done, and by whom. Traits about lifestyle, or world view, or values; the really big things, the really small ones.

I know that.

And, yet, I drew the shape of someone thinking that no one can fill it, because no one possibly can, and she came along and she did.

But if I know that life and love is more than a list of desired features, then why am I so fascinated by her? Is she so intriguing?

Why can’t I get her out of my head?

Because she fits some silly list I made up?

In spite of it?

So you know, she types, I don’t look like that all the time. My friend is an aspiring photographer and I was her model for an hour.

Most people, he types back, don’t get to look like that for an hour.

The King is the game, but the Queen is the key.

He scowls as she takes his Queen.

“Your form is off, today,” she observes, “your model girl still on your mind?”

“Somewhat,” he replies, “I did a stupid thing.”

“I noticed,” she giggles, “You left your Queen open.”

“Besides that. She’s a member of this other site, see; so I went to take a look. It’s kinda creepy-stalker behaviour, but I learnt something.”

“Uh-huh.”

“See, if she found out what I did, she’d think I’m a creeper and stop talking to me. But if I don’t tell her, then, well, I’m stuck with the lie.”

“Lose-lose.”

“Indeed.”

Her finger appears over the board, pointing at a piece, then another, “Naturally, you must expect me to attack with Capo Ferro.”

“Naturally. But I find Thibault cancels out Capo Ferro, don’t you?”

“Unless the enemy has studied her Agrippa, which I have.”

Turn by turn, the pieces move.

“But you did learn something,” she continues, “from your creepy-stalky thing.”

“I found out that she’s married.”

“Oh my! The plot thickens. What then, I wonder?”

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s not like I want a relationship with her or anything, it’s just… I’m not sure. If I did – want a relationship, I mean – then her marital status would dash all hopes and that would be that. But she’s still in my head; except now, I think of her, I tell myself that she’s married, and then I think of her some more. So nothing’s changed. I think it’s possible that it’s because I simply cannot believe that such a one as her exists.”

“You’re certain you don’t want a relationship with her?”

“It’s not that I don’t. I mean, you’re single and you meet someone attractive and the default state is that the question of a relationship is always somewhere out there; it’s a ‘maybe’ floating about until something happens and it becomes a ‘no’ or a ‘yes’. It’s just that, in this case, it’s entirely out of the question.”

“Why’s that?”

“Geography.”

“I see. And so, if you don’t want a relationship, what is it that you do want?”

“I want her out of my head.”

“And how’d you do that?”

“I can’t figure it out. All I want, really, is to talk to her until I fall out of love with her or she falls in love with me.”

“And if neither happens?”

“Damned if I know.”

Turn by turn, the pieces move.

“I’ll tell you something that’s absolutely certain, though,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“The King is the game, but the Queen is the key. Checkmate.”

He lies in bed and he is thinking.

He is thinking – The shape of the thing is not the same as the thing.

The shape of an apple is not the same as the apple; it could be the shape of a red apple, the shape of a green one. It could be a tiny crabapple or a giant fuji apple. It could be the apple that Snow White bit, or the one that Eris tossed. It could be a pink apple, or a blue one. It could be a peach.

The shape of the thing is not the same as the thing.

That she is the shape of the dream does not mean that she is the dream.

Such a one cannot be.

Can she?

So, he typed, are you married?

No, she types back.

Do you have a boyfriend?

No. Do –you– have a boyfriend?

Never had. Oh, I missed engaged.

Single, single, single.

The shape of chess is sacrifice. No one wins the game with all their pieces.

“So she’s single,” he begins, as his moves his first piece.

“This fixation of yours is getting disturbing.”

“It bothers me too. ‘Single, single, single’, she said; it’s been ringing in my head for some time now.”

“That does sound like you.”

“You know what else? The more I talk to her, the more perfect she becomes.”

“Really?”

“We like the same things, mostly, and we dislike the same things, mostly. More importantly, we like the same type of things. It’s like we’re the same shape.”

“It sounds like things are going well.”

“Not at all, she shows absolutely no interest in me whatsoever.”

“How can she be your dream girl, then? I wonder.”

“Why not?”

“Shouldn’t your dream girl think that you were her dream boy?”

“What if I am? I have this odd feeling I could be.”

“Wishful thinking, perchance?”

“Maybe so. But the question follows of how to let her know.”

“How to let her know?”

“If I tell her how awesome I am, I’ll sound like a show-off and she wouldn’t talk to me. And if I don’t, she would never know and she wouldn’t talk to me. Lose-lose.”

“Chess is all about the lose-lose, isn’t it?” she says, bringing a finger to the board, “Here, and here. If you save your knight, you lose your rook; if you save your rook…”

He looks at the board, at the imperilled knight and the besieged rook.

“And the solution,” she continues, “is simply to avoid the situation in the first place.”

“That is true. Chess is all about the lose-lose; in forcing your opponent into the situation, and in avoiding it yourself. After playing so much chess, then, I should know what the solution is,” he picks up a piece, places it gently down.

She giggles, “Interesting choice. Now, in taking either your knight or your rook, I would have to give up my bishop. Is a bishop worth as much as a rook, I wonder.”

“You know it isn’t. But it’s better than losing a knight for nothing at all.”

Turn by turn, the pieces move.

“Except,” she continues, “She didn’t have to do anything to get you interested.”

“True. Perhaps it is just wishful thinking, then.”

“If she is missing this one important thing – of actually liking you – she cannot be your dream girl, or she’d be as smitten with you as you are with her.”

“So she’s not too good to be true, which would make her true.”

“True indeed. I’ll tell you something, though. You are awesome, and one of the things that make you awesome is that you don’t think that you are.”

“I think I’m awesome.”

“You don’t believe you’re awesome for the reasons that some people do.”

“Such as?”

“You wouldn’t believe me. You try to hide it. And those of us who know it feel like we’re in on a little secret.”

“I don’t hide that I’m awesome.”

“Like I said, you wouldn’t believe me.”

They play in silence, for a moment.

“I think you’re awesome,” she says.

“In that case, maybe you are my dream girl.”

Her outstretched hand hesitates over the chessboard, for a moment.

She picks up a piece, places it down.

Then her voice rings out clearly as she says, “Checkmate.”

He lies in bed and he is thinking.

He is thinking – Maybe it all comes down to her name?

That she has a name which I’ve always considered to be amongst the loveliest of names. A fairy tale name.

That sounds like destiny, doesn’t it?

There’s no such thing as destiny.

She can’t be real.

Emily.

Wait, he types, before you continue, let me confirm this. You like these movies, you like these things, you look like that some of the time, and you’re single?

Yes.

Checkmate occurs when someone has no moves left to play.

“How goes it,” she asks, “with your model girl?”

“She’s still in my head.”

“You don’t talk about her, anymore.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I still think that she’s perfect, she still thinks that I’m not.”

“Does she know of your obsession with her, I wonder?”

“She does.”

“You actually went and told her?”

“I can’t help but. I’m a man of action, lies are unbecoming of me.”

“You’re pretty much the exact opposite of a man of action. You told her and, yet, she’s still talking to you?”

“I wonder why; as does she.”

“You found your way out of the lose-lose, then.”

“I wonder if I have, though.”

Turn by turn, the pieces move.

“Have you ever considered that she’s not who she says she is?” she asked.

“Like a father of two getting his kicks by pretending to be a pretty girl online?”

“Or somesuch, yes.”

“Of course, there are too many people unreal on the Internet to believe that everyone is real. We call those puppets.”

“And you’re sure she’s not a puppet?”

“It seems like a lot of trouble to go through to create a persona. There’s someone there. The things she says, it feels as if I’m talking to a soul. If she is a puppet, and I like talking to the puppet, what does it matter if she is a puppet?”

“Aren’t lies unbecoming?”

“I don’t know, I enjoy her company; it doesn’t matter if she’s a puppet. It’s like this – if the puppet says that she likes chess, but doesn’t know a rook from a castle, then it would be a lie. But if the puppeteer likes chess, then the puppet knows, and it follows that the thing I like about the puppet is the same thing that I like about the puppeteer, which isn’t a lie. It feels like I’m talking to a soul.”

“Talking to a soul?”

“Talking to a soul.”

“Checkmate.”

He lies in bed and he is thinking.

He is thinking – The shape of the thing is not the same as the thing.

The lose-lose is the shape of chess, but it is not chess.

And a story is the shape of reality, but it is not real.

A story is enough of reality to be believable, to have you care; but too much like reality, and the story is amoral, trivial, vulgar.

A story, thus, is a better version of reality. It is reality as we would like it to be.

If she is interesting but uninterested – unlike how I’d like it to be – then… then, she must be real.

Mustn’t she?

“She disappeared,” he says.

“She’s not real, then?” she asks.

“No, no, I don’t know.”

“You seem very calm about it.”

“It’s… unreal.”

“What happened, I wonder?”

“We were talking, as we always do, and everything seemed fine. Normal. That day, the last time we spoke; well, in the morning she messaged me. She never ever did that before, she only responded when I spoke first. That morning she messaged me and said that she just wanted to say good morning before she went out. I thought it was wonderful, that I was finally getting to her. That we were… closer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That night, we spoke, as we always do. Normal. The next day, she came on, but we didn’t talk.”

“Why not?”

“I wanted to, I always do, but she… well, I had to give her some space, right? There was still an unanswered message from the night before, she could contact me if she wanted to, I left it up to her. Anyway, we didn’t talk, and then her profile blanked out. I thought it was site maintenance. The site does that, shuts down accounts for a few hours. Well, a few hours passed. I thought it was, I don’t know, that she got suspended or something. After some more time, I was just… too curious, I guess, to have it hanging, so I went to the other site, did the stalker thing.”

“Right.”

“And her profile there was wiped out too.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure. It’s like she erased herself. Like she was never there. Except I have a bunch of messages left by a non-existent profile that tell me that she was.”

“And that’s it?”

“No. During the one day that I didn’t talk to her, I installed something and I cleared my cache. I haven’t done that in months. Anyhow, it means that I don’t have anything of her profile saved on my computer. Her email address was there; and I can’t remember it because it has a sequence of numbers.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Of all the times. Months I didn’t do it. I had to look up instructions. Why now?”

Turn by turn, the pieces move.

“If this were a story,” he continues, “if this wasn’t real, this would be the second act, wouldn’t it? Something separates the lovers, for them to be reunited at the end, happily ever after.”

“And if this isn’t a story?”

“Then she just disappears. She’ll have her reasons, and I’ll never know them. And I’ll wait, and I’ll wait, and I’ll wait. And then, one day, I’ll just stop waiting, and not even know that I’ve stopped. Life just goes on.”

“Ever after, if not happily.”

“Life just goes on, ever after,” he nods.

“So what are you going to do, I wonder?”

“Do? There’s nothing to do. I left her a message, I sent emails to two of the numbers as best as I can remember. Now I wait, until I stop waiting.”

“Maybe she is a puppet, after all.”

“Maybe she is.”

“And are you on the side of hope or doubt, I wonder?”

“A little of both; some things seem off, but some things would always seem off if one were to look, right?”

“So you wait.”

“So I wait, until I stop waiting. I’ll tell you something though, these few days, with her in my head, it was… magical. Yes, magical. It was magical to believe that someone like her could actually be out there, and that I could meet her someday. A perfect girl, made of everything I ever wanted. The girl that fits the shape.”

“Maybe it really is the second act, and maybe you will.”

“I don’t think so,” he smiles, faintly, the wan smile of the defeated, of the one who wants to stop believing, but can’t.

“Why not?”

“Life doesn’t happen like this,” he smiles, faintly, the wan smile of the defeated, of the one who wants to believe, but doesn’t.

Above the board, her hand hovers over the pieces, her voice is soft and small, “You really love her, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“You didn’t hesitate.”

“I don’t have to. I know. I’ve always known. I’ve loved her since before we ever met.”

“I’m really sorry that she’s gone,” she says.

He looks at the board, at her hand, not making the move that is hers to make, “I’m sorry too. Aren’t you going to checkmate?”

“I…”

“Go ahead. Should I concede?”

“No,” she says, picking up a piece and putting it down, “No, you should never have to concede. Checkmate.”

He lies in bed and he is thinking.

He is thinking – What is happening?

He replays every detail of every interaction that they ever had, over and over, trying to find some clue, some little corner sticking out, with which he can stick his hand in and pry, pry loose the madness and uncover the truth underneath.

She can’t not be real.

At his small round table, he rests his head upon his arm, thinking – Emily, Emily, Emily.

He picks up the pen that he uses to write his cheques, and, upon the back of an envelope, writes out her name, “emily”.

Whimsically, he writes a “my” before it.

“my emily,” it says.

He cancels out the “my”, underlines the “m” and the “y” in her name.

He looks at the letters that are left; “e, i, l”.

Maybe it all comes down to her name?

Emily, my perfect girl, my wishful thought, too good to be true.

E-I-L.

L-I-E.

Emily.

My lie.

He lies in bed and he is thinking.

He is thinking – My lie.

My beautiful, perfect lie.

She’s not real.

“She’s here,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“She re-appeared. Left me a message.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. The message said that she decided she needed a holiday and she chose to come here. She shut everything down because she’s on holiday. She’s in town, she told me where she’ll be waiting if I could meet her tomorrow.”

“That’s… incredibly convenient.”

“It’s unreal!”

“You keep saying that, how unreal it is, how she’s too good to be true. But you’ve said that you don’t care if she’s a puppet.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why do you keep saying how unreal it is? It’s starting to sound like you think that she might not… be actually… real?”

“Have I not told you this? When I was really young, I had an imaginary friend. Except… I didn’t know she was imaginary. For the longest time, she was real to me, and we played together and I think we spent a lot of time together. I can’t really remember, I was too young. But I do remember this – on my ninth birthday, I invited her over. My mom promised me cake, and I told her I’d bring a friend. And so on. Well, she was standing in the room, and everything was fine, and I didn’t even notice that no one talked to her, and I was so busy with the candles and things that I didn’t talk to her myself. But they gave out the cake, see? And I asked why didn’t they give her a slice. And they went, who, give who a slice? And I remember two things – one, that I was crying when I shouted, ‘She’s standing right there!’ and, two, that she was crying when she said, ‘They do not see me. They never will.’”

“That’s… I’m surprised you remember.”

“It’s strange, isn’t it? Something wrong with my head? I don’t know, nothing’s happened since. It’s not like I hear voices or that I see things. And, until now, I had forgotten all about it. But this… this surreal feeling. Like I’m part of a story. If I’m part of a story, it must be a story I made up, right?”

“I wonder.”

Turn by turn, the pieces move.

“Checkmate,” she says.

He lies in bed and he is thinking.

He is thinking – She’s real.

She’s not real.

She’s real and missing. Or not real and missing? She’s missing.

She’s here.

Reality, reality, reality.

Emily, Emily, Emily.

Imaginary friends, imaginary lovers. Virtual friends, online loves. The girl of my dreams.

What happens now?

“Today,” he says.

“So.”

“I keep wondering what’d it be like, if she’s not real. Do I imagine it all in my head? Am I lying in bed while I think that I’m out there, or am I really out there, talking to myself? Or do I just wait, and no one turns up? What happens?”

“This is really silly, you know.”

“I think it’d be awkward, the first time we meet.”

“Then if it isn’t, you’ll know that she’s real.”

“I also think we’ll hit it off really well.”

“You really need to make up your mind.”

“She’s incredibly witty. She says these things, things that really floor me. I don’t think I’m capable of imagining that.”

“So she must be real?”

“I can’t tell. I really can’t. Sometimes I feel that she has to be, because, I mean, who doubts the existence of people? Sometimes I feel that she can’t be, because she’s too good to be true.”

“You really need to make up your mind.”

“Yeah.”

“What happens if she isn’t real?”

“I’ll be devastated, I think. I’ll also be insane. Harmlessly so, thankfully, but certainly insane.”

“And if she is?”

“I don’t know. We fall in love?”

“What if you don’t?”

“I’ll be devastated.”

Turn by turn, the pieces move.

“Don’t go.”

“What?”

“If she isn’t real, you lose. If she is… you’ll probably lose anyway. Lose-lose. The only solution is to avoid the situation.”

“I…”

“Don’t go. Please.”

He is looking at the board; at her hand, trembling as she holds a piece in the air.

“This isn’t like you,” he says at last.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I can’t not go. I have to know for sure.”

“Then go.”

“I have to know for sure.”

“Fine. Go.”

“After this game.”

“Checkmate.”

He lies in bed and he is thinking.

He is thinking – This can’t not be real.

There is a shortage of perfect breasts in the world.

They feel real.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” says his friend.

“Err, hello,” says Emily.

“I’m Alice,” says Alice.

“Emily,” he introduces her.

“Uh-huh,” Emily says.

“Pleased to meet you,” Alice says.

“The bathroom’s that way,” he points, and Emily walks as he directed.

“Things went well, I see,” Alice says.

“She’s real?” he says, as he sits down and sets up the board.

“She’s real.”

“Thank God. I was sure, but, you know, it’s nice to get some confirmation.”

“There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Yeah?”

“Hey,” the real girl says.

He turns around, “Breakfast?”

“I’d love some,” she replies.

“Sounds good,” Alice adds, “The game can wait.”

“Bacon, eggs, cheese?”

“Sounds dreamy,” she says.

“It’s just bacon and eggs,” he replies, as he heads to the fridge.

“I do hope your cooking is better than your chess,” Alice giggles.

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Emily smiles.

Emily walks about the room, looking at his things.

“It’s ready,” he says, and he walks over to the small round table, a plate in each hand.

Emily is standing by the coffee table, by the chess board, next to Alice.

“You’re really very pretty,” Alice says.

“Thank you,” Emily replies.

Emily walks to the round table, with Alice a step behind her, and they take their seats. He returns to the kitchen, and brings over another plate, sits down.

“This is nice,” he says.

“It is. It smells wonderful,” Emily says.

“It does,” Alice adds.

They eat in silence for a moment, and he turns to Emily, “Listen,” he says, “Would you mind leaving on your own?”

“Are you kicking me out?”

“What? No, no! For an hour or so. I’ve to finish the chess game,” he gestures to the board.

“You really like chess, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Okay, then, I’ll head back to the hotel. You’ll come by?”

“Why doesn’t she stay here with you?”Alice asks.

“Why not?” he replies, “Tell you what, why don’t you go to the hotel and pack up your things, and I’ll come by after the game? If you stay here you can save some money.”

“Are you sure?” Emily asks.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s up to you.”

“He really likes you,” Alice adds.

“Okay. Why not, indeed?” she smiles.

And they finish eating and he walks Emily to the door. She leans forwards to kiss him.

The door closes.

“Whose turn is it?” he asks, after he had returned to his seat by the chess board.

“You’re blushing,” says Alice.

“Am I?” he says, “Well. Should we restart?”

“Okay,” says Alice.

He returns the pieces to their places, and they start their game.

“You said you had something to talk about,” he prompted.

“Yes,” says Alice, “This is the last game we’ll play. I’ve to go somewhere. Far away.”

“What? Why? That’s sudden.”

“Anyway, your dream girl is real, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” he laughs, “yes, she is.”

“So you shouldn’t leave her alone to play chess with another girl.”

“That’s silly. I’m sure she wouldn’t think of it like that.”

“I’m serious. Don’t let her see you get emotional about me, okay? Promise me that.”

“I don’t think she will–”

“Just promise.”

“Okay.”

Turn by turn, the pieces move.

He stands at the door, looking into the corridor without. He does not look at her, “This is goodbye, then?”

“Yes,” she says, “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Alice.”

The shape of chess is sacrifice. No one wins the game with all their pieces.

“Hello,” he says.

“Err, hello?” Emily says.

“Emily.”

“Uh-huh?”

“The bathroom’s that way,” he points.

As she walks away, he sits down in the single chair by the chess board, begins setting up the pieces.

“Hey,” Emily says.

He turns around, “Breakfast?”

“I’d love some,” she replies.

“Bacon, eggs, cheese?”

“Sounds dreamy,” she says.

“It’s just bacon and eggs,” he replies, as he heads to the fridge.

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” she smiles.

She walks about the room, looking at his things.

“It’s ready,” he says, and he walks over to the small round table, a plate in each hand.

She is standing by the coffee table, by the chess board. She turns as he places the plates down upon the table, “Thank you.”

She walks to the round table and takes her seat. He returns to the kitchen, and brings over another plate, sits down.

“This is nice,” he says.

“It is. It smells wonderful,” she says.

They eat in silence for a moment, and he turns to her, “Listen,” he says, “Would you mind leaving on your own?”

“Are you kicking me out?”

“What? No, no! For an hour or so. I’ve to finish the chess game,” he gestures to the board.

She looks at the board, the single chair, the pieces of a half-finished game, “You really like chess, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Okay, then, I’ll head back to the hotel. You’ll come by?”

“Why not?” he replies, “Tell you what, why don’t you go to the hotel and pack up your things, and I’ll come by after the game? If you stay here you can save some money.”

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s up to you.”

“Okay. Why not, indeed?” she smiles.

He finishes his plate while she is mid-way through hers. She watches in silence as he picks up his empty plate and replaces it with the extra plate of food that he had brought, and he continues to eat.

And they finish eating and he walks her to the door. She leans forwards to kiss him.

The door closes.

Checkmate occurs when someone has no moves left to play.

He stands at the door, looking into the corridor without. He does not look at the little girl, with her long hair pouring down, straight and dark, seated in her chair by the chess board. He never ever looks at her. “This is goodbye, then?”

“Yes,” she says, “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Alice.”

The door is closing as she whispers, “Your dream girl is real. You must know that that must mean the girl whom you thought was real… your real girl… you must know that that must mean your real girl is dream.

“My love, my perfect boy, I’ll say it for you, okay?

“I’ll say it for you, just this once…

“‘Checkmate.’”

The King is the game, but the Queen is the key.

“I think you’re awesome,” she says.

“In that case, maybe you are my dream girl.”

Her outstretched hand hesitates over the chessboard, for a moment.

“I am your dream girl,” she whispers, too softly for him to hear, as she picks up a piece, places it down, “I am.”

Then her voice rings out clearly as she says, “Checkmate.”

The Alice moved through a dream, and then another, and then another. She went through the dreamscapes of dozens of people, then hundreds, then thousands.

Time is a dimension, a measurement, a thing of physics; a physical thing. In the time that it takes for a man to pass out from too much alcohol to the moment his friends shake him awake – mere seconds – he would have met his ex-lover, and told her that he loved her, and she would have smiled the smile that said that she already knew.

Time, to the Alice, only had one simple rule; which was that things happened one after the other, but not necessarily, of course, in that order.

Alice moving under skies; of oceans of soul, of floating cities and of palaces of guilt.

Alice moving under skies; of lush meadows, of eternal winter.

Alice moving under skies; in fancy, she did pursue, the dream child moving through a land of wonders wild and new.

Alice moving under skies; until she found the girl.

The girl was crying.

Seated on a chair in the middle of a vast, empty plain, beneath a desolate sky, the girl had her head in hands, and she was sobbing.

“Why are you crying?” the Alice asked.

“I lost something that is precious to me,” the crying girl said.

“How did you lose it?” the Alice asked.

“I was scared. And so I ran away,” the crying girl said.

“Why were you scared?” the Alice asked.

“Because if he knew me, if he knew the real me, the me beneath the me that he thinks I am, he wouldn’t love me anymore,” the crying girl said.

“Why wouldn’t he?” the Alice asked.

“Because I am not the person that he loves,” the crying girl said.

“Who is the person that he loves?” the Alice asked.

“Someone whom I’m not. Someone whom I’m pretending to be. Someone whom I wish that I could be,” the crying girl said.

“You are,” the Alice said, “you are exactly the person that he loves.”

Sitting on a chair in the middle of a vast, empty plain, beneath a desolate sky, the crying girl lifted her head from her hands, and she looked up at the Alice.

“How do you know?” the crying girl asked.

“That’s how I found you,” the Alice said.

“What colour is her soul?”

“Like a little girl, almost. A little afraid, uncertain if she belongs, out of place, out of time. She likes being alone, but she doesn’t want to be always alone. She’s goofy, and she smiles, and she laughs, but most people don’t know that, because she shuts down when she’s around people she doesn’t know. She’s witty, and she’s kind, and she’s a little bit sarcastic.”

“That sounds like someone I know.”

“It doesn’t sound like me at all.”

“What colour is her soul?”

The Alice knew that she would be faced between two things; to be with him in his misery, or to be without him in his happiness. Lose-lose.

And the solution, she knows, is simply to avoid the situation in the first place.

But love is not chess.

And a choice is made.

Above the board, her hand hovers over the pieces, her voice is soft and small, “You really love her, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“That’s how I found you,” the Alice said, “he told me the colour of your soul.

“You and I are the same shape – out of where, out of when – but we are not the same person. It is allowed for the pawn to dream of being queen, but not for the queen to dream of being a pawn.”

“Why is that?” asked the girl.

“Because a pawn can become a queen, but a queen can never become a pawn,” said the Alice.

“Why are you crying?” asked the girl.

“Because I have to give to him what he wants most in the world,” said the Alice.

“What does he want most in the world?” asked the girl.

Her voice was soft and small, and her tears flowed freely, but she stands straight and she stands proud, “Someone out of place, out of time, witty, kind, a little bit sarcastic, who understands the importance of good tea and better grammar.”

The Alice looked at the girl, sitting in the chair, and held out her hands, “Someone who likes the things which he likes, mostly; and dislikes the things that he dislikes, mostly. Who likes the same type of things. Someone with a fairy tale name.”

The girl reached out, and the Alice pulled her to her feet. They stand, almost the same height, one with her hair short, the other with her long hair pouring down, but almost the same person. They stand in the middle of a vast, empty plain, beneath a desolate sky.

“Someone with a soul of pink and pastel blue.”

The Alice looked her in the eyes, knowing that this was the moment that mattered, this was when the butterfly flew. She could still turn back, and leave the dream unfinished.

The Alice held onto the hands of the girl, and said, “You have to say it. You have to answer the question.”

They stand, almost the same height, one with her hair short, the other with her long dark hair flowing down; almost the same person, not the same person at all.

“Why am I crying?” asked the Alice.

“Because you have to give to him what he wants most in the world,” said the girl.

“What does he want most in the world?” asked the Alice.

The girl closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

“What does he want most in the world?” asked the Alice.

“Me.”