A short doctor’s visit (the visit, not the doctor), the visit routine, and a quick walk around the Center for Health (great way to get extra steps in, for I AM counting my steps these days). I had a few stops on my way back home and a text message from my Tom asking if I’d like to meet for lunch at Cafe Calbay. Of course I would. Cafe Calbay is one of our favorite little diners with a 1950s feel; a wrap-around counter and vinyl seat charm.
I was about 20 minutes early, so, parked my aging mocha VW with a latte interior, and wandered over to the little consignment shop around the block. It is a very sweet little shop with vintage furniture, classic books, dishes and dolls and seasonal “stuff”.
As I opened the door, I caught a glimpse of red and white plaid (or was it checks?), but, couldn’t maneuver my way around two shop volunteers who were busy in conversation about grandchildren, what to wear to a tropical wedding and whether or not the table the two of them were dusting was shiny enough.
At long last, an opening, behind the chair, which was whispering “Penny, come check the price tag“. I did, and nearly swooned into a faint.
I sucked myself in and squeezed in a less-than-ladylike maneuver around the chair, ever-so-careful of the Christmas ornaments displayed on the attractive breakfront. A wee little tear in the chair’s upholstery was the only flaw. Look left. Look right. Stand up. Sit down. Perfect! This wing-back was beyond comfortable and the ottoman was just the right height.
I pulled out my cell phone and took a photo, for the chair was posed quite contentedly with the noonday sun warming its seat, then, I scurried out the door, for Tom was surely waiting in the cafe. I’d show him the photo and we would come back.
While visions of sugarplums danced in my head (for this was THE perfect chair to flank the fireplace) we ate our lunch.
Sated and satisfied, Mutt and Jeff walked back to the little shop, and I gasped, for there was one of the conversant volunteers, putting something on the back of MY chair, and there stood a man, not MY man but another’s, who had just purchased my checked sit-upon.
She who hesitates . . .