Old Story: Waiting

Waiting

If I press my face against the glass, I can just see him turn the corner at the bottom of the road.  I won't lean out though - that'd be crass.  Besides, then he'd know how important he is and that wouldn't do at all.

He's just past the phone box.  I can stand back from the window to observe him now.  He averages two minutes twenty seconds to reach me from there.  I know, because I measure his paces with my heartbeats.

He's at the next block - not long now; the seconds tick anxiously by.  He's here!  I creep quietly through the hall to the front door.  I hear him clomping heavily up the stairs, pausing occasionally.  A fumble with his precious bundle, then a single slender item rattles into its cage via the letterbox.  We wait, the letter and I; I can almost hear echoes of my own tortured lungs from within its enigmatic folds.  Yes, together we wait that agonising age for the postman to start back down to the street before I hurl myself at the trap, wrench up the lid and claim my prize.

It's addressed to me personally; doesn't look official - my fever grips me now.  I rip it open and read:

"Dear Steve,

GAME A:  10)...Rc8            GAME B:   12) Bc6+

All the best, William."

Ah, that blessed human contact.