A 1950s pickup approached four ornate dining chairs alongside a rural road. Red velvet cushions accented elaborately carved legs. But the backs were too skinny, the seats too wide. The wood was stained slightly too dark, dulling the red fabric. A drizzle began as the chairs loitered along the road instead of gracing the fine dining room they seemed meant to inhabit. A block-letter sign leaned against the chairs: “FREE” in foot-high red marker. How long had they waited? Tomorrow morning when the sun rises, they would begin to smell and rot. The truck’s brake lights flickered, then sped away.
B.G. Smith 