“No problem,” she says bravely, but she is clearly disappointed. Clearly. He lets the moment hang between them, lets her dance on the gallows of expectation a bit longer, then bequeaths her another look. The “if only” look that has carried him from junior high to this very minute, standing here before her.

“Just my luck,” he says. A thin smile and shrug from her. He fires one back, matching her shrug for shrug. He has to fire one back; it’s expected. Then one step each. Maybe two. He counts out “one, two, three, four, five” to himself, even using “Mississippi” in between, before pivoting around. Checking again. And she’s still looking. Checkmate. Bobby Fischer would come out of hiding to watch him work, days like these. Before he can fully savor the victory, however, the floating sound of the courtesy phone erupts overhead, raining down with cleansing static. Big smiles from both of them on that one, the timing impeccable. Courtesy ex machina. And exit, stage left.