"Why 'of course'?"
"Well, Ringo is okay but kind of a sad sack, you know? And George is a little too new Age for my taste."
"What's 'New Age'?"
"Oddball religions. Sappy boring music. Pathetic attempts to convince oneself of the superiority of anything connected with Indians. Non-Western medicine."
"But you don't like regular medicine."
"That's because doctors are always trying to tell me I'm crazy If I had a broken arm I would be a big fan of Western medicine."
"What about Paul?"
"Paul is for girls."
Clare smiles, shyly. "I like Paul best."
"Well, you're a girl."
"Why is Paul for girls?"
Tread carefully, I tell myself. "Uh, gee. Paul is, like, the Nice Beatle, you know?"
"Is that bad?"
"No, not at all. But guys are more interested in being cool, and John is the Cool Beatle."
"Oh. But he's dead."
I laugh. "You can still be cool when you're dead. In fact, it's much easier, because you aren't getting old and fat and losing your hair.2
Clare hums the beginning of "When I'm 64." She moves her rook forward five spaces. I can checkmate her now, and I point this out to her and she hastily takes back the move.
"So why do you like Paul?" I ask her. I look up in time to see her blushing fervently.
"He's so...beautiful," Clare says. There's something about the way she says it that makes me feel strange. I study the board, and it occurs to me that Clare could checkmate me if she took my bishop with her knight. I wonder if I should tell her this. If she was a little younger, I would. Twelve is old enough to fend for yourself. Clare is staring dreamily at the board. It dawns on me that I am jealous. Jesus. I can't believe I'm feeling jealous of a multimillionaire rock star geezer old enough to be Clare's dad.
"Hmpf," I say.
