My chair squeaks a bit.
Just enough to remind me of its age and charm.
It is not comfortable, but again, nostalgia.
I imagine I look quite debonair. When I lean back and put my feet up on the window sill behind my desk.
The cuffs of my trousers are licking the rain water on the sill, interrupting the conversation of two old friends.
The couch along the side wall beckons me.
The weathered leather.
Poetic of some sort.
An old friend.
A strong friend.
Or maybe more of a companion.
Many nights, I slept on that couch, not from necessity but from want.
Well, maybe some necessity, when it is late at night and the whiskey had burned my lips too deep and my eyes were dry from reading some old novel of no matter,Â that I found in the shop around the corner.
No matter what the reason that couch always met me with the same warm embrace.