Turquoise Chair
THE FIBERS SLOUGHED a bit at the edges of the backrest. Years earlier, the chair’s seat had begun fraying. Jones fingered the disrupted weave.
If he sat and then rubbed his leg up and down against the material, say for maybe ten thousand iterations, as was his inclination, he might unpin more of those upholstery strings. He lowered himself to bounce against the cushions.
Unlike Amila, he was cured. Whereas she washed before and after eating, before and after touching her keyboard, before and after dusting, and several times in the middle of their intimacies, creating awkward intermissions in their comingled sweating, huffing, and crying, he no longer had to repeatedly comb his hair.
Jones no longer combed upon waking, after brushing his teeth, between dressing and prayi
