I knew of a pavement café where tables and chairs were painted
in different colours, this to lend ambience in an otherwise dreary
street. A young lady, a student at the music conservatorium, came
here for lunch and always insisted on sitting on the same chair,
a rosa one; she was pretty in stern way, long black dress, flat shoes,
plain long hair and big glasses, waiters were happy to oblige her.
This caused jealousy amongst other chairs that wanted her to sit on
them too. In the night, they ganged up on the rosa one, upended it
and scratched badly. The owner thought it was the work of vandals,
put the damaged chair in the store room, but when the musical lady
came, she insisted to sit on her chair, damaged or not. Other seats
felt bad realizing it was not the rosa’s fault but the idiosyncrasy of
the artist, so in the night, they spruced up the rosa till it looked as new.
But now the pianist didn’t want it, not the same as before, she said
and sat on a yellow chair. Feeling miffed, the gleaming new looking
seat said to itself: “No big shake, she had a narrow, cold bum anyway.”