It’s dark and time for bed.
I turn off the television and climb up the stairs.
When I enter my bedroom, I’m an intruder.

He’s there.

Gathered up in shadows, he’s a figure defined by darkness.
His face is obscured by the tall collar of a wool coat and the low brim of a felt hat.

A giant hunched over a table too small for his stature.
He’s staring at a chessboard.
He’s the dark army.
But there is no one else playing for the other side.
He’s alone.

A steady drum beat fills the room.
One deep beat per second and a half.
I cover my ears, but the sound seeps through my skin.

He doesn’t notice me.
He’s focused on the game.
He doesn’t know what to do.
The beat grows louder, faster.
He begins to swell in size.

I sense his anger.

With each beat, he adds another inch to his size.
His presence takes over a quarter of my bedroom.

I know it’s coming.
I tense up, still pressing my palms to my ears, but I can’t close my eyes.

He swells up and moves his left arm above him.
His large fist flies down like a hammer.
It splits the wood.
The chess pieces bounce, but otherwise don’t move.

I wake up. This time, in a new bed.
Nearly three thousand miles away.
I see this man once a year in my dreams ever since I was a child.

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