The chair is mine now.
For thirty years it was his chair, moulded by time to his generous proportions, the arms polished by perpetually drumming fingers, the head-rest darkened with grease.
For twelve months now it’s been our chair, my body sinking into hollows created by his, my fingers exploring places restlessly worn threadbare.
It’s cocooned, cosseted and comforted me in the aftermath.
In recent weeks I’ve added crisp linen covers, and the re-upholstered framework now yields gratefully to my frailer physique.
So now, like the journey, the chair is mine alone.
And now is the time to move on.
This was going to be a tale about a cat missing its owner, but the muse wouldn’t have it. ‘Your anthropomorphic phase is behind you,’ it said. This is the last photograph I would have expected from Friday Fictioneer C E Ayr – I had him down for a dog man. Thank you once again to Rochelle, for her leadership of our happy band.