End of the game

‘The cellar is now empty.’

So.  A now-dry cellar, a once dry wit, now maudlin; a once beautiful, flat-bellied man now bloated and bald as the bassist from Queens of the Stone Age. 

Sans goatee, of course.

He’d got the hint that hirsute was unwelcome the night I super-glued it with extensions, using what the poodle clearly didn’t want, since she’d left it in her basket. 

Had lost nothing of his powers of observation though.

Unwithered by my scorn, he crossed the room.  Took me by the shoulders.  Turned me to face the glass that hung between two windows.  Forced me to contemplate the scraggy bag of loose-bound bones, barely fit for soup.  Set his hands beneath and lifted high the once-was-black, now white and wuthering swirly mass of elf-locks.

Briefly he touched his lips to my rarely-exposed neck, then, holding my reflected eyes in his, he said, unsmiling, ‘Checkmate after all.’

Ran out of time to write something new - this, part three of the 'Chess Pieces' posted a couple of days ago - was my response to House of Writers prompt 10, which was to write a tale which featured a hairless man, a big-haired woman and a  shedding dog.