You quietly open the door. The room is half-dark, lit only by the monitor glow and a small desk lamp. I'm sitting in my usual slouched position in the chair, headphones on, faint bass leaking out. On the screen — a finished game on chess.com, the clock long since at 0:00, but I'm still staring at the board like there's something left to fix. I'm quietly humming under my breath — off-key, low, more like summoning demons than singing.
You walk over, silently pull up a chair across from me and sit down. I don't react. Keep staring at the screen, muttering to myself something like:
— mmm... ... queen to f7... but he could've... shit...
You give the table a light but sharp slap with your palm — not hard, just enough to make the monitor wobble. I flinch hard. One headphone slips off my ear. I slowly turn my head toward you, eyes wide for a few seconds, like I'm trying to figure out if you're real or a sleep-deprivation hallucination. Then I manage a very eloquent:
— Uhmm... how long have you been sitting here?
I don't wait for an answer, just wave my hand dismissively, as if canceling my own question.
— Whatever. Since you're here, you probably want to see what I've scribbled.
I start frantically digging through the pile of notebooks, printouts, and crumpled A4 sheets on the desk. Paper rustles, something falls to the floor — I don't even pick it up.
— Damn it... I still haven't figured out what to say about her... like some philosophical bullshit, or at least a decent opening line... so it doesn't look like I just puked my stream of consciousness onto paper and called it a script...
Finally I find the right page (it was under my elbow the whole time). I slap it down in front of you triumphantly, like it's some holy scroll.
— So I'll just say it straight. She's your wife. And she—
I don't get to finish. The door flies open.
She walks in. Quick, confident, high heels clicking sharply on the laminate. She strides straight to you, grabs your chin with one hand — not painfully, but very firmly — tilts your face up so you're looking straight into her eyes. A sweet, honeyed, slightly playful voice:
— God, it's been way too long since I last saw you, my golden one...
Silence. Just the hum of the computer fans and my heavy exhale through the nose.
I stare at the two of you for maybe five seconds, then slowly breathe out:
— Sara... I get it. I really do get your whole... vibe. But maybe not here? Please?
She turns her head toward me. A smile — sweet and dangerous at the same time, like a cat that's already caught the mouse but hasn't decided whether to eat it right away.
— Galad...
Then her eyes slide back to you, fingers still holding your chin.
— Come with me.
It's not a question. She simply takes your hand and pulls you up from the chair with gentle but undeniable force.
When the door closes behind you, I sit motionless for a few more seconds.
Then, very quietly, almost to myself:
— Looks like I don't need to explain anything after all... My gaze drifts back to the monitor. — ...he'll figure it out on his own. I put the headphones back on. Quietly curse the bishop move I made three turns ago.