Soft chairs watch over us. They give us a place to mourn, laugh, ****. Chairs gently cradle us without guile or judgement, as the best of friends. The crevices and folds formed in the material of chairs record and keep our secrets, our histories. Without soft chairs we are nothing.
Every time she appears, in the limelight, emerging from the corners shadows prowl, in no time she mercilessly steals all the charm from girls all round and then every one is compelled to talk about her in hushed tones.
"Stop this wily moves to steal a march do you think I am unaware of your tricks?" in to her ear I would whisper, as if advocating for others,who lose face, when we dance face to face, in total abandon.
She would pretend innocence, look at me as if she was cheated , go back to her silent planning, for the next theft between deft dance moves, her disarming style, curtains off her wile.