Once upon a time, there was a chair that would rock back and forth. It was made of teak wood and was soft around the edges, at the same time being as hard as can be. A decade had done nothing to damage the rocking chair. It was as sturdy as ever, as comforting as ever, and as thought-provoking as ever. A Prozac-riddled middle-aged woman groaned and perched herself on the chair. The room spun around her eyes, as she wiped the sweat off of her furry eyebrows. She was hot on a cold night.
The image of the man she hadn’t seen in eons flashed before her tired eyes. She knew it was ominous, but she could not stop herself. She reached out for the hipflask and drew a few sips to regain her poise. Her eyes wept, as she recollected all the times she had heard hollow good-byes, the cold hugs and the vain kisses. What good it had done her to waste days on end with wishful thinking, she wondered. Like the relentless ebb and flow, the chair rocked, back and forth, back and forth. And with each swing, the woman sipped a little of the poison she held so dearly in her hipflask.
The cold night turned into a misty morning. The birds chirped and the sun slowly silhouetted the window panes. The woman, who had guzzled almost an ocean of the sin, now precariously wiped away the crusty tears from her face and with a creak in her knees, set about to put on the kettle. Her young daughter came rushing downstairs to greet her mother a good morning, only to find her more dishevelled than ever. Perturbed, she asked, “Whatever is the matter, mother?” Her mother replied, “Oh don’t mind me, darling! I fell asleep on the chair again.” Her daughter disapprovingly looked at the chair and said, “We must get rid of that old thing. Father always hurt his toes because of that chair.” The woman smiled wryly.