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The Chair

The old ochre hide answered darkness in mellow tones. Easy. Joseph’s hand brushed past a familiar pleated arm. He descended into its hold. An enveloping blanket of night proved no obstacle to the sacred corner of his universe. A small measure of time expanded as trained fingers manipulated a drawer within reach, smooth rosewood box, worn golden Dunhill, aromatic roll of leaf. Spark. A soft lick of burnt yellow, ember glow, gentle pull.
            His mind painted thick creamy smoke wafting above though his eyes were dark. Space before him was rich with texture, void of detail. On a moonless night this room was almost black. Tonight a picture frame on an oak table hovered in profile against a seamless empty distance. Joseph was at peace.
            He felt the power of combustion against his gums, tasted warm Cuban soil, saw generations of families working fields and stacking leaves large as coral fans as he sunk deeper into the tanned chair. This was an old chair to be sure. Old when he got it, probably old when the woman he bought it from got it. A good chair. Worked with leather cleaner and buffed by tweed and fine wool, it held the flavour of years of use, of wine and nectar, chocolate and peat, sweet tobacco aged with care.
            A quiet man, Joseph counted the miracles of health, expansive overwhelming miracles of health and fortune, family, friends, the circuitous route to this chair, this night, this Bolivar Belicoso Fino.  He was committed now, to spending the night here. Accommodating his wife’s reasonable request for flower-scented bedclothes and pine from the bedroom window. A small snicker. A choice. Flower scented bedclothes or a symphony of oiled colours? Tonight Joseph chose the Bolivar. 

The Chair writem by Sheldon Seigal

Sheldon has a weekly fiction blog and is a avid cigar afficionado and car buff. More of his fiction can be found on his website www.shelseigel.com.