chair-love

When the one met the other, it said, "I will chair-ish you forever." This, without knowing

much about its companion, save for its color and approximate size. You see

in the chair-world, they don't get to meet a lot of other chairs. But since

they were both placed on this plane at this opportune time, they

declared it fate and gave in to the rare luster o' chair-love.

They spoke in chair-whispers when the stadium closed and told each other

about the dreams that used to keep them awake. During days when they

were left out in the rain, the other chair laughed and laughed because the raindrops

tickled its legs. Whenever this happened, the other chair willed its arms to

serve a purpose other than support for

tired, confusing bodies. They did not talk about their inability to

touch, the way they secretly think about what the other smells like. They want a dirty

love --- one that would involve body parts, missed chances,

sloppy kisses. For the first time, they questioned the distance that kept one chair from another,

an unlikely life. They consulted quack doctors,

voodoo masters, dark women who danced under the sun. But nothing could be done.

I will not tell you if they finally drifted apart, if one of them

moved somewhere far and fitful, or if they spent their lives reaching for each other.

But I will tell you this:

In the chair world, there are no miracles.

(Like in ours, love. Like in ours.)