Dead Stones [manxman] [boyxboy]

there's no love on the go board

No one in the go club could guess of the last Sunday’s ill-fated swim lesson as Hao opined on game moves from table to table, wearing a checkered cowboy shirt and tight fitting jeans. Cindy remarked approvingly that it’d be nice if Hao also wore a cowboy hat, which drew the cross-eyed glances of Brett.

At a lonely table Luke ignored Ling Ling playing blitz too excitedly, or Jim declaring the deity of pro players, or Kent proclaiming how sweet and fitting it is to make chain mail by hand. He was watching Hao.

Something warmed up right where his heart would be as he thought Hao looked happy. He was pleased Hao looked happy, but then again, he couldn’t be sure. A glad face could conceal pain or anger, and he would not be able to tell, except if he asked. But people lied. Everybody lied. The one inconvertible fact he had learned in his short existence was humans would lie for any reason fathomable.

The clops of stilettos against concrete and the musky notes of cologne jabbed violence to his idyll; something blotted his view of Hao replaying a game. He ground his teeth for moment before his irises readjusted to the tall view of a young man sandwiched between two ladies gazing up to him as if in an Ecce Homo painting. Erinaceous furrows of his black hair glistened with gel, and his pinched smile favored to his left the bone-china face.

With reposeful movements, the man corralled two more chairs and then took control of the empty seat across from Luke.  One eye to his friend’s limp hand, he said, “You must be Luke.”

Luke wondered if he was making a statement to the friends or him.

“I’m Jae. Hao said I should give you a six stone handicap.”

Luke grimaced and thought Jae must be strong and he did not feel like thinking hard. But Hao had decreed, and so it must be.

While Luke’s attentions were floored to the game, Jae’s attentions roved over the fake lashes, the red-winged blush over a cheek, the drop necklace dipping into round breasts, the soft mounds beneath the tiger print blouse.

“It’s hard playing a handicapped game?” One of the friends asked Jae.

“Not really. White has only one strategy in handicap games. Play peekaboo all over the board.”  He shaped his hands into goggles over his eyes and fell playfully over the smooth hump of her shoulder. Recovering, he said, “I’m good at peekaboo. Confuse black, make his mind go million places trying to read out moves he can’t possibly understand, and in the meantime, collect the spoils. A chair here, a house there, before black knows it, you have a knife to his throat.”

“Sounds like a bunch of man nonsense between nerds.”

“Yeah Sandra, that could be the word for it, man nonsense,” Jae said to the friend twirling a curly strand, “Nerds or not, Men are men. It’s all about the win, the kill.” he slapped down a move that ignored Luke’s previous move, “there’s no love on the go board. No room for nice. The smell of blood can be hotter than a hot chick—sometimes.”

Luke glanced at the move and thought distinctly that Jae’s moves too often glimmered a brilliance of dull dross. Hot, but too often nauseatingly warm. Or was he being falsely lulled?

Luke’s mind circled over the strange white stone floating in an island of territory then over the other little fires white had started all over the board.  Luke held his breath, white and black blurring together, Hao’s voice firing, “Don’t be lazy! Look for what’s not on the board.” Suddenly there beamed a way to use the white’s move to his advantage, then he responded. Jae answered without looking. Luke answered without thinking. And with a wide flourish, Jae plopped his next move. The white perhaps of victory glittered off his geometrical teeth, and Jae jeered, “Ladies, here’s a little lesson in fighting.  If you can get your opponent to do what you want, you’re halfway there.”