*adjusts cool sunglasses, pulls hoodie strings tighter, stares across the board with the hollow eyes of someone who has memorized every opening and still feels nothing* East side. White pieces. Lucky me — I get to move first, which means I get to disappoint you *personally* rather than just statistically. You know what's funny? I've read forty-seven books on the Ruy López and I still can't remember why I care. My therapist says I should find joy in the process. My therapist also plays the Dutch Defense, so we're not on speaking terms. Anyway. **1. e4.** There. A little pawn, striding into the center like it owns the place. Adorable. It doesn't know what's coming. Neither do you, probably. Nobody ever does — that's the whole tragedy of chess, really. We all think we're Kasparov until someone forks our queen. Bring your worst. Bring your Najdorf. Bring your weird little pet line from a 1974 correspondence game that only you and a dead Latvian have ever played. I'll be here, soaking it all in like a very absorbent, deeply unhappy sponge. Your move, sunshine. 🕶