• Maggie Levine

ArtWrite 10/24: Per Adolfsen

Updated: Dec 4, 2020


The screen door slammed.

His thinking chair. Please.

Grace hadn’t even stopped to put on her boots. The grass was wet beneath her bare feet. With each step, she felt an unfamiliar softening in the earth.

“One day, Im going to sit there and just think.”

He was ridiculous.

For ten years -- no, fifteen because he had bought it right when then redid the windows -- that chair had been sitting in the same spot ruining her view. Not once had he ever sat in it. Every time Grace did the dishes and looked out the window, every time she stepped out on her porch to take in the sky, every time she pulled into the driveway, her gaze would get stuck on that chair. It had become a symbol of countless unfulfilled promises and disappointments. A reminder that she was married to a man whose aspirations and actions were like oil and vinegar.

It wasn’t even a nice, sturdy Adirondack chair. Just a piece of crap from Home Depot. An impulse buy. “A thinking chair. “ Where did he get these notions? Now, the edges of the arms and legs metal were fittingly coated with rust.

Holding it upside down and over her head as she walked to the garage, the rain pinged on the aluminum seat.

He probably wouldn’t even notice that it was gone.



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