His chair is oddly shaped, bent in strange contours to which his back conforms perfectly when he stands and stretches, always against his will. There are crumbs and specks lining the crevasses of the chair from meals and messes long past, compacted into a sediment never disturbed by the soft limbs which always press their way deep within every fold and seam of the upholstery. The chair has a distinct smell, offensively neutral, 1000 faded human moments cancelling each other out in a tenuous balance. His wife laughs at his legs, which retain the complex geography of his chair permanently. She pokes at the craters, runs her fingers along little ridges whenever he lies on his stomach, without his pants on, which is seldom. He does not like the way his pasty legs look, flabby and balding along the back in particular. Broken capillaries web under the surface, providing fresh blooms to his arctic scape.
The chair sings little songs when forced to cope with his motions. As he moves papers across his desk from left to right, a reeeer sounds, and right to left provides an errrre. When he needs to open the top drawer, the chair issues a cree, middle drawer causes a ckreee, lower drawer a sckreeee. When he stands a whole whreewa sounds, which can be modulated based on his rate and angle of ascent. It is possible to monitor his every motion from the little concert his chair provides. He is unaware, but for the past 6 years he’s subvocalized each sound as it occurs. Sometimes he will make these sounds well away from his chair as he performs similar motions. It is possible, as he passes, to note a faint kraw, kraw, kraw as he walks by you, but you might mistake it for something on the wind.
The chair is 14 years old, 1 year younger than his job. He’d acquired the chair when his team leader, Thomas, was fired for sexually harassing Linda. Thomas never came back for the chair. After a week of eyeing it, Sam stayed late after work to surreptitiously wheel the thing from Thomas’s office into his own.
It was a nice chair in those early days. Sure, it’d had a previous owner, but Sam had sat on previous chairs himself. Besides he wasn’t the type to think less of a chair for something like that.
In the early days the chair didn’t reeeer or errrre. It wooshed, and rolled. It was sleek, the leather upholstery shone perfect black. The nickel plating was bright and reflective. Sam appreciated these aspects of the chair deeply, but found true companionship when the chair began to sing to him. It started with a cre whenever he’d lean forward. Instead of finding the sound annoying, it broke the silence of his office. He found himself leaning forward unnecessarily, creating a kind of rocking tic. Suddenly he wasn’t lonely at work. Sam hadn’t noticed how much time he spent alone in the quiet. The little prick of cre kept him in-rhythm, focused. No longer did his mind drift, nor did he resent his tiny office or the meaningless work that piled on him.
As the chair gathered years it gained vocabulary. Sam’s moments each acquired an aural dimension peculiar to individual motions. As he moved around his office the chair symphonized an interpretation of his actions. When in a flow state, Sam felt himself dancing across his desk, skating over the various surfaces of his office, compelled by song. Coworkers now actively avoid his office. One coworker described the sound as a pulsing blender filled with cats in heat. Others were inclined to agree. But Sam couldn’t hear their sniggering over his singing chair.
Sam used to hate his job, but now he does not mind it. He doesn’t think about what he’s doing, he listens for the lyrics his actions produce. A request is made of him, he summons up the notation in his head, and he performs.
Sam used to dread sex with his wife. Since beginning movement vocalizations, though, he loves it. Whree wha whree wha whree wha, and his wife is enraptured. Sksksksksksks, three minutes on the dot, and she climaxes. He loves life more, in fact. Cooking is a krkrkrkrk for the chopping and a reeererrrereeeereeere for stirring. The man is content with motion for the song it produces.
When his wife masturbates, she now subvocalizes sksksksksksksksks. Once mockingly, now unconsciously, she kraw, kraw, kraws as she walks. The music spreads. And, unconsciously, Sam and wife are brought closer together.
The chair’s leather is flaked now, the nickel has worn around its edges. Two seams are opening and stuffing pokes through. Sam loves her more for these little flaws, though, each impressed on his flesh. Idly, he’ll fondle his legs and remember the chair.
And though life has improved for him, some light granted to the crushing tedium of his life, every day, every moment, he’s thinking that he’d rather be back in the office. Rather be back in that chair, embraced by the armrests that taught him how to love again.
