I went to see my friend at his house. He was sitting in his living room. The bank had taken the rest of the house. Walls, windows, roof, rooms, chimney--all gone except for a section of floor, a carpet, and a chair with my friend in it. A red chair.
"How's it going?" I asked.
"Jill and the kids are living with her mother."
"I always liked this room," I said.
"Did they have to take my television?" he asked.
He said, "I went down to the bank yesterday. I wanted to yell around. But another bank had taken over that bank, so all that was left was one office on the fourth floor. The rest of the building was gone."
"Yeah," I said, "they usually leave one person behind in an office just for appearances. And then that person disappears."
"There wasn't anyone in the office. A crow sat on the desk, pecking papers."
"What I don't get," he said, "is how that office can stay suspended without the rest of the building to hold it up."
"What I don't get," I said, "is that and all the rest. Anyway, come and live with us."
"Okay. But you'll grow sick of me, and we'll stop being friends."
"Yes," I said, "but not right away. This is the hospitable phase. We mustn't think too many moves ahead. Let's bring that chair with us, shall we?"