KAREN WALKER - EDGAR AND ELOISE

Karen writes short fiction and flash in Ontario Canada.  Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in online magazines and anthologies including Spillwords, Reflex Fiction, The Brasilia Review, Commuterlit, and Blank Spaces.  People say Karen is fun and frustrating, and her chicken lasagna is pretty good.  

Edgar and Eloise
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​          A table met a chair at a bar.
          Edgar puffed as he pushed inside: the door was a tight fit for a six-foot diameter. He wiped his smooth red oak top with his suit sleeve and felt along his tapered edge for chips and dings. None. Good!
          Sitting in a dark corner was a bistro chair.
          I hope that’s her.
          She was tall, leggy, and wrought iron. Curls and swirls ran down her back. Her seat was firm, upholstered in a blue and white toile with little bobbing tassels at the corners.
          The chair flashed a coquettish smile as the big table lumbered up. “Edgar, I’m Eloise.” Her shapely leg nudged his pedestal. “Am I what you ordered?”
          The company’s online catalogue promised romance without entanglement. Beneath a photo of her in a tantalisingly sheer chair cover, it said: “Bring French flair to your event with a bistro chair inspired by a Parisian cafe.”
          Edgar had clicked on Eloise and put her in his cart. Why buy when I can rent, he thought. And, if things go really well, there’s even a rent-to-own option. A confirmation email set up a date for tonight.
          When the waiter brought their cocktails, Eloise asked in a smoky voice if she could put a glass on him—with a coaster, of course.
          “You have lovely manners!” Edgar said.
          Eloise twirled a tassel. “I adore fine hardwood.”
          They laughed.
          Eloise’s matte black finish then turned serious. “What can I do for you, Edgar? A business function? A party? If your wife is coming, I can be very discreet. Sit off to the side.”
          “I need you at a dinner for the new CEO. Black tie.”
          She sipped her drink. “Let me guess. He’s a big boardroom table, seating at least twenty. Probably teak or mahogany. A flunky polishes him every night. Mr. Big likes engraved pens, crystal water pitchers, and being surrounded by yes-men armchairs.”
          The table nodded. “I want to move up in the company. Make a good impression.”
          “It’s wonderful to have a dream.”
          “What’s yours, mon cherie?”
          “To go to Hollywood.”
          “And be a casting couch?” The words just slipped out. Edgar looked away and fiddled with his coaster.
          The pretty chair groaned as if dragged across the floor. “Who am I kidding? Once somebody bangs me up or stains the upholstery—be gentle, Edgar!—I’ll be back where I started, in a second-hand shop.”