The Chair

He rose from the bed. He walked on bare feet over to the chair and sat. She breathed quietly, unmoved, still, beauty banked and slumbering. He thought nothing. A little yellow light on the desktop computer breathed too, in and out, sleeping. He could hear the silence, a whispering cacophony that never ceased. He stood. The floor outside the room was cold, but he wanted a Scotch. He fumbled for a glass in the disheveled bar, taking a swig from the bottle at the same time. He found a paper cup, decorated with Santa scenes. “Well, he was a jolly old elf”. Simon poured carelessly, five fingers, nearly topping the cup. He sipped a bit out to keep from sloshing the drink, then padded back into the room and the chair. She slept still. He could not.

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