The Quiet Weight of Consequence

I saw him through the café window, bent over a chessboard he had set for himself. White on one side. Black on the other. His hands resting in his lap as he considered his next play.

The street drifted behind me. Buses sighed to a stop. Someone laughed. Inside, nothing shifted but his eyes.

He was playing alone.

When I raised my camera he looked up. A small grin, almost conspiratorial, as if we both understood something about the moment. I nodded. He returned to the board.

There is a particular kind of courage in sitting across from yourself. In making a choice and then answering it. In allowing no one else to blame when you misjudge the field.

The world urges us outward. Toward noise. Toward display. Toward the comfort of distraction. But he seemed content with the quiet weight of consequence, with answering to himself.

Through the glass I could see my own reflection hovering above the pieces. Two players inside. Another watching from the street.

He leaned forward and advanced a pawn. Then he folded his hands again.

The game went on.