"I don't want to be a biography--clinical and sterile.  
I want to be a novel--passionate, inspired."

He saw the frustration in her familiar eyes
and lowered his view.  He studied her mouth, slightly open,
her bottom lip quivering in anticipation of a word or a sound,
though neither came.  He felt her breathing,
her whole body rising and descending,
as if she became an embodiment of the heart she struggled
her whole life to control.  The gentle breeze disappeared;
the moon stood as quiet witness.

"I can't help the way I feel," he said.
"Please, just go."

She grabbed his silver hat from the dashboard
and handed it to him.  He failed to recognize the irony
of the moment's action, his mind busy
surveying the remaining pieces on the existential chessboard.  
His king was exposed; she readied her queen.  
All seemed lost.  The import of his next move
was everything.

He looked back into her eyes and saw himself
reflected as never before--foreign.  His mind raced
through all the possible moves, the established tactics,
theories, tests.  He found it difficult
looking into her newly unfamiliar gaze,
and had to look away.  
The breeze remained absent.  
The moon made no judgments.

Checkmate.

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