He sat on me every morning with his black coffee and newspaper, every afternoon with his cheese sandwich and lemonade, and every evening to watch the six o’clock news. He read to me, stories of adventure and wonder. He talked to me when the loneliness grew heavy and thick like a raincloud. He sang to me, sombre lyrics, jolly lyrics. Some rare days we didn’t see each other at all. He was my companion, and I was his.
One afternoon, after a few bites of his cheese sandwich, he slumped so far into me, I could feel the weight of his entire life. He didn’t finish his sandwich. He sat for the longest he’d ever sat before. When it was dark outside, a woman barged in. She stared at the sandwich on the floor and then at me. Busy men and women invaded the flat, commanding this and that. They lifted him from me, and suddenly I felt like I was missing an arm. No one sat on me the following morning. I missed the weight of my friend.
Days later, a large man wrapped his arms around me and threw me out on the side of the road like I was just a piece of furniture. The only sounds I heard was the relentless traffic and the incessant squawks of the seagulls overhead. I missed the coarse voice of my friend. I missed the smell of his coffee. I had given up on ever seeing him again when a lorry rolled past and there he was standing outside our old flat, leaning on a stick, his new companion. He smiled and walked away. And I was quite content. He was moving on.