It’s nothing like a chess problem, the toggling ardor, this advance and retreat; forward then back all black, white and cerebral. It’s nothing like chess; like the leather hand stuck to a black bishop I saw in a public park, an ancient mind whirring overhead. It’s not chess, but one could be forgiven for assuming it was that premeditated. More like a dance. An ebb and flow, fluid undulation of hips he pedals her back. She retreats, persists, parries and twists