The clothes chair

There is a chair in the bedroom that never receives guests: it holds the clothes that are neither dirty nor clean, the two-evening jumper, Thursday's jeans, the shirt that could still survive one more dinner.

Nobody taught it this. It gave way, layer by layer, the way the years give way, until it forgot its trade of waiting with someone seated.

Every so often it stands empty and the sight is almost frightening: a bare chair means the house is in order

or someone has gone.