Later in the evening, after eight. Walking though Congress Square where the Union Station clock is, across from the Museum, next to the Eastland Hotel.
I should be looking at the pretty colors of the Holiday light installations, watching the traffic, marking the change in the weather, clouds and the breathless feeling of oncoming snow.
Then there is a chair by the sandwich shop. It looks perfectly fine, sitting in the light of a lamp in the wall, sharing the light with an air conditioner.
The chair is occupied but you can't see anyone in it.
All of the ones currently occupying it can see the ancestors who accompany everyone who walks by.
If you sit in it your shoelaces suddenly are undone when you rise.
People who sit in it lay their coats on the back because their blood becomes ice water and they don't feel the cold.
Whispers sound in your ears. You hear the sound of stone wheels far under the pavement.
After a while the streets around you are deathly quiet, even though they are full of passing cars.
If you sit in it long enough it will become empty.
I was lucky to get a picture. I'll never sit in it. When I came back an hour later it was gone and half a bottle of cognac and a red rose were in its place.
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