It was early spring, and the last of the snow was finally melting. New flowers poked their delicate heads out of the soil and gently unfurled, praising the sunlight's warmth. Everything seemed brighter, as if the whole world had been waiting in anticipation for that very moment. The atmosphere smelled earthy and fresh, thick with pollen and buzzing with recently awakened insects.
But we were inside. Light olive-green walls of my dining room encircled us instead of olive-green leaves, and the closest thing we had to new plants was the flower pattern on my oriental rug. A window was open, so the wind swept in fresh air periodically. It mixed with dust and swirled around, catching the light in mesmerising patterns.
Neither of us minded staying in. Going outside would have been distracting, a sensory overload. I was overwhelmed as it was.
The two of us were seated across from each other at a large walnut table in the center of the room. Our arms were rested on the tabletop, and a wooden chessboard filled the gap between us neatly. It was his turn.
Every second was precious, fleeting. I looked up at him and studied the slopes of his face, starting with his strong jawline and working upwards to his thoughtful eyes. They were the spring sky, they were the deep oceans of Maine, they were all of the confidence in the world. He moved his hand from his chin, ran it through his wavy hair, and took one of my knights.
Now it was my turn. He grinned at me, and I was struck by lightning. Our eyes made contact, he said something, I responded. What had he said? What had I said? It must have been funny, because we were laughing. I hadn't laughed this hard in a long time, better stop before I start crying. I couldn't believe I was there, that it was real. Yet I could feel the soft carpet beneath my feet and the smooth table beneath my hands.
My eyes wandered. I stared at the cabinet behind him and looked through the clear glass. There I found my old acquaintances: silver plates, teapots, serving platters. Hoping that they'd help me make my next move, I pleaded with the cold metal for something, anything.
Instead they brought back memories. The teapot I had found in my grandmother's barn and thought it to be silver, then cried when it turned out to be plated. The plates I'd so proudly deposited cereal on as my mother ran into the room in horror. Each object on the shelves told me a story about my life, some that I'd forgotten, some good, some bad.
My life had always been mildly tumultuous, a motley assortment of vaguely-interconnected tales. They stampeded through my head, and I noticed a common factor in each, a longing. I was searching all the time, a nagging drumbeat that was nonstop.
Wait-
It had ceased.
I had been completely comfortable.
The room was silent. I moved my bishop.
We shared another glance, identical in expression and position.
I have been searching for that feeling ever since.
