Poor Sport

Sandra lifted her rook and placed it in front of Larry’s king. “Check,” she said.

“That’s not check, you can’t just claim check for everything, Sandra,” Larry replied.

“You’re right, I can’t. But in this case, my rook has a direct line to your king. That is check. That’s the very definition of check. Don’t tell me it isn’t check, Larry, or we’ll have to bring in the neighbour again, and you know how Mrs. Wachtel can’t walk far with her hip and all.”

Larry sighed, his mouth a grim line of annoyance. “Fine.” He lifted a bishop and moved it to the line of fire.

Sandra smiled, moving her rook forward to take the bishop. “Check,” she said.

“Dammit, Sandra, you can’t keep checking me!”

“I can, Larry. Again, that’s the game. That’s how it works, I keep checking until you’re in checkmate.”

“I don’t care, stop it!”

“No.”

Larry swiped his arm across the table, throwing the board to the wall and scattering pieces in all directions.

“That’s hardly good behaviour, Larry.”

“Fuck you, I’m making dinner,” Larry said. He stood and stormed off to the kitchen, leaving Sandra to sigh and pick up the pieces.

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