IT WAS NOW officially alarming. He was up a knight and coming on strong. How had she misjudged him so badly? He was probably the best person she had ever played except for her father, maybe, and Zolov, who was nuts. She studied his face. He was older than she, but not by much. Maybe twenty. He had to be an international master at least. She wasn’t on the chess circuit, but she knew an extraordinary player from a good one. And as he played he was becoming real to her. His little ticks were so peculiar. The skin around his fingernails was ragged from being picked at too much. Tiny blue veins zigzagged under the surface of the transparent skin beneath his eyes. Rain plastered thick dark cords of hair to his forehead. Now that it was no longer perfect, she could see it was beautiful. Suddenly she had this powerful urge to touch the pale skin above his wrist, where she could see his pulse thumping. She stared transfixed at that spot, feeling that her own heart was beating out the same rhythm.
