The Evening of the Twelfth of April
I leaned forward over the glass chessboard, and moved a bishop. “Are you stoned?” Eric asked me.
“No.” I looked down at my bishop and reassured myself that it was protected should he wish to take it. “Why? What’s wrong with that?”
“No, I don’t mean you made a bad move. You just look like you’re stoned.”
“Oh. I took some cold medicine. I’m a tad out of it,” I said. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to mention that I had a cold. I always hated people with colds.
He shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat, I suppose.”
That wasn’t what I meant, of course, but I didn’t say anything.
“No.” I looked down at my bishop and reassured myself that it was protected should he wish to take it. “Why? What’s wrong with that?”
“No, I don’t mean you made a bad move. You just look like you’re stoned.”
“Oh. I took some cold medicine. I’m a tad out of it,” I said. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to mention that I had a cold. I always hated people with colds.
He shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat, I suppose.”
That wasn’t what I meant, of course, but I didn’t say anything.