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Stovetop By Kim Chinquee Frida takes her popcorn to the living room, sitting with her daughter of thirteen. Jennifer plays Chess, her most recent fascination. "Play with me," Jennifer says. "I don’t know how." Frida sells real estate, a new job. She’s been soliciting rich prospective clients, sending envelopes with letters that read, "I’d love to sell a house!" She’s only had one sale, a condo to a cousin. Lately, she’s been reading birth announcements in the Life section, finding parents needing bigger houses. "I’ll teach you," Jennifer says. Frida tastes the oily popcorn. It is not sweet, not salty. She thinks about the envelopes waiting in her office. She wants to buy expensive groceries: exotic fruits like mangos, organic lettuce and bread from the vegan bakery. Jennifer likes things like hamburgers and French fries, and lately sandwiches from Subway. Lately Frida has been making Ramen Noodles. Eggs and toast and macaroni. Jennifer talks about each piece: the queen and king, the knight, the rook, the bishop and the pawn, telling her mother of their power. Frida eats. Jennifer says she wants some, so Frida transfers the bowl over. Their longhaired, Button, paws the hem of the red-and-yellow curtain. Frida looks down at the individual pieces. "What kinds of houses do you sell?" Jennifer says. Frida tells her daughter to be quiet. She can almost see a Stalemate. She is certain she can win.

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