The Armchair

You are currently reading from the Trials and Tribulations of a Crazy Asian Series.

I sat quietly for a moment and watched Geraldine retrieve her phone from her pocketbook, mulling over what she had said about Cole and his supposed “whores”.  I wondered how much of it could be true.  I thought about how we were still getting to know each other and pondered over whether or not Cole had chosen to leave his less than reputable past in the “can we talk about this later?” pile.

But then I remembered his plans for this apartment…and the arm chair.  We found the arm chair in a thrift store in West Village.  It looked as though it had been through a war – the fabric was ripped, it smelled of smoke, booze, and bodily fluids, and the cushions had seen better days.  But, for some reason, Cole loved it.

Cole paid the man behind the counter $235 for that piece of shit arm chair and in a week, it looked like someone had sat, overnight, and made an exact replica.  New cushions had been placed within, and Cole had managed to find someone who restored the fabric to its original glory and weed out the smell.  He had put a big, red ribbon on it before I had gotten home from work with a note that said, “You once asked why I loved this chair so much in spite of its condition…much like you asked why I love you.  I hope you know that it’s never been my intention to change you – only to give you the fresh start you deserve.  See you at dinner. -C.”

And so, I took a deep breath, mustered a smile and said, “Geraldine, it’s been so good of you to visit.  I’d ask you to stay but I’m afraid I’ve got some things to see to.”  I walked over to the door, kicked the suitcases to the side, and pulled it wide open before saying, “Thank you so much for dropping by but I’m afraid our time is up.”

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