Florence eases the door of the coffee shop open, stepping inside as her eyes dart between each of the patrons. At last they land on the dark haired man in the back corner, sipping coffee as he studies the chess board in front of him. Anatoly. Her lithe figure slips easily through the crowd to the table where he is seated, so absorbed in his thoughts that her quiet presence does not register. "Mr. Sergievsky." He looks up and breaks into a smile.
"Florence. How great to see you again. Please, have a seat." She sits across the table, pulling a thermos of coffee out of her bag.
"Sorry this is so unexpected. I took a chance on finding you here and wondered if you'd want to have a rematch for the interrupted game last night." She could lose herself in the depths of his warm brown eyes. They seem to call out to her with a sense of safety, though having only known the man a matter of days, Florence tells herself it must be her imagination.
"Please, don't apologize. I'm glad you came. If you don't mind my asking, where's Mr. Trumper? I don't believe I've seen the two of you apart since the tournament began." The shuttered look in Florence's eyes makes Anatoly question his asking. He should have let the subject be and taken the time offered.
"He's back at the hotel, resting a bit before the games later this afternoon and evening." Florence hopes her vague almost-truth is believable. If Anatoly isn't intuitive enough to understand Freddie's still working on sleeping off his hangover, she won't be the one to tell him. "And Molokov?"
Anatoly's expression grows firmer and a bit stormy. "He's doing business." He takes a deep breath and heaves a sigh. "No matter. Neither of them will be interrupting our game this time." He smiles slightly at her as they begin to play. Anatoly is good; there's no question of how he made it to the finals. Freddie is good, but Florence has been able to beat him for years. Not that she does so, regularly at least. She values her well being too much. It's refreshing to be able to play a well matched game of chess without having to challenge her opponent and still make sure she loses. Anatoly is surprised. With Florence being the second, Anatoly hadn't expected much of a challenge. Instead he is more engaged that he's been in quite a while. Florence's smile is warm and welcoming. Her moves are calculated, strategic, and preemptive. For close to an hour, both players are lost in the game, a welcome escape.
"Checkmate." Anatoly studies the board, then leans back to look at the first person to best him in over a year. He nods, and smiles.
"Good game. That was wonderful. I haven't had such a challenge in far too long. Thank you." Florence smiles and looks down, attempting to hide the slight blush rising in her cheeks.
"Thank you, Mr. Sergievsky. It was a pleasure. You're a very talented player." He shrugs in response.
"Please, it's Anatoly. I just love what I do, and want to do justice to such a beautiful game. And no offense, but I've just been bested by my opponent's second." At the last statement, Anatoly's features take on a hint of embarrassment and uncertainty. Florence shakes her head and smiles slightly.
"Don't worry about it. I've been able to beat Freddie for the better part of a decade." She calmly begins resetting the board while Anatoly stares in awe and confusion.
"Pardon my directness, but why on earth are you his second rather than the other way around?" Florence's smile grows sad and resigned, having found a twisted humor in the irony.
"This is just the way things are, the way they must be. I get to be around and play the game I love, and that is enough for me." The board is ready for whoever might play next, and Florence runs her finger longingly across the side. But it is not meant to be. With a quick glance at her watch, Florence stands to leave. "Thank you for the wonderful game, Mr. Serg—Anatoly. I do hope we'll play again soon. Good luck in your games this evening."
"Same to you, Florence. Take care." And she is gone. Florence's feet feel heavy as she walks the short distance to the cable car stop. In contrast with Anatoly's caring attention, Freddie seems even more gruff and harsh than she had realized. They're in it for the long run though…or at least through the end of the championship. If things don't improve, Florence doesn't know how much more she can take. When he's not drunk or hungover, if there is a time anymore, there's still quite a bit of the Freddie she knew and grew to love. As she clings to the pole in the cable car, Florence studies the way the afternoon sun glints off her ring. "I know forever isn't promised, it isn't certain, but I can tell you I will be here as we find out where forever takes us." Back then it hadn't just been about winning. It had been about the game. Their relationship hadn't been perfect—nobody's is—but it had been worth it. The ups and downs and highs and lows had brought them closer. Until….they didn't. A casual drink turned into being too smashed to remember anything the next morning. But that was the point, wasn't it? The stress, the pressure to be perfect….Freddie didn't want to remember. He wanted to forget for hours upon hours, countless women streaming through their hotel rooms as they traveled from competition to competition. Florence learned when to speak up, when to clean up, and when to disappear. And it all just made her tired. Of competing, of Freddie…of life as it was. She'd thought about leaving, but where would she go? And what would become of Freddie? And so she stayed. Again, and again, and again.