A lot of things take place all at once. Or so August thought. He sat back in the spindly, cushion-backed chair and opened his newspaper. He liked these chairs. The black frame twisted into the shape of an arch around a delicate shaped flower made from the same frame, each chair had a different flower but each cushion that sat in front of it was encased in tight, grey, high-end fabric.
Yes, he had the pleasure of thinking as he scanned the notices page, I am rather fond of these chairs. My watch also, he realised. How he had come to depend on the simplistic clock-face fastened between two feminine, sleek but not shiny, black straps, it was a fine thing indeed. Rushing out of the house early morning, stepping over potted plants that leaked out all over the footpath, getting his tie stuck on the coat rack that always stood too close to the front door in the same spot- even after reminding Florence over and over again to move it and even after moving it himself on rare occasions-, dropping his toast slathered high with marmalade into a gathering of sluggish snails ambling silently yet as still as a portrait across the pebbly front path, all these horrendously insulting things were made better with a single glance at his watch.
"Flo, dear," he turned to the lady sitting next to him. She looked up from her book, tilting her head back a bit so the wide-brimmed black hat lifted and allowed her eyes to gain some vision. "Mmm."
"We must go car shopping."
She blinked. "Oh?"
August admired her pretty, small, pouty mouth for a few seconds before continuing. "We must. I am in dire need of a new vehicle."
"Today?" Florence queried. Florence was not one for the spontaneous nature of adventure. She simply couldn't understand why August didn't want to sit all day under an apple tree and read.
"We must!"
"Oh, well..." she looked over at the sky for no reason whatsoever. August felt himself lose interest in the companionship that Flo would have offered had she come. Perhaps she wouldn't have been so agreeable, or may have made a fuss over something small like stepping in dog mess, or complained of how heavy her new book was, the structure of her long black dress, or the way in which the wind moved.
"On second thought-" he hurried, but Florence was a natural at taking no notice of other people's discomfort.
"I think it should be a nice day for looking at cars," she said, turning back to him. August closed his mouth. Nodded. Took a quick sip of his cappuccino. Florence went back to her book.
Halfway to the first car-yard (August had planned a sum total of eleven inside his head. His favourite was the third one down on Penny Lane, but he had decided to search two mediocre ones first due to the fact they came recommended by his brother who was stuck in hospital with a broken arm and two broken legs. He felt content that there was now something he could talk to him about.) Florence told him to stop the car and he did. She climbed out carefully and started walking.
"Florence!" he called from the window. "Where are you going?"
"Inside to get an ice-lolly," she pointed with her book to the deli a few cars down. August sighed impatiently. He would have to cross at least one car-yard off the list at this rate. They had stopped earlier on to get petrol, and once more after that so Florence could collect a leaf to use a bookmark.
How she had seen The Perfect Leaf She Must Have Now Or Else Would Faint In A Spasm Of Despair while zooming down the street at seventy in a ridiculous hat that took up half the car he'll never know.
He waited. Florence returned and handed him a blue ice-lolly. This meant he had to sit and eat it.
Another car yard was mentally scrapped from his list. He felt himself break into a sweat.
"I'm not at all fond of the blue ones." Florence remarked while watching a family emerge ungracefully from their car ahead.
"Is that why I've got it?" August demanded.
"I'm not too fond of yellow, either," she mentioned.
"Then why did you get them?" August asked in a mellow form of rage.
"They're refreshing, aren't they? I like how they melt on the tongue."
He ate the last of his like a beaver munching on a log: mechanically fast and with indignation.
"Alright, and we are off." He put the car in drive and sped out onto the street at a high seventy-five. Florence held onto her hat.
When they had driven for about ten minutes or so, Florence delicately produced a camera and took a photo of what could only have been a blurry, lopsided, uninteresting scenic shot of a dirty apartment building and a stack of trashcans next to a vacant square overgrown with grass.
"Was the motion option on?" August asked.
"Hmm?" Florence answered vaguely, her eye still pressed to the camera and focused away from him.
"You know you have to click the motion option when you take a moving photo."
"Is it?" she took another shot, closed the camera and sat back in her seat.
August felt more sweat emerge.
They stopped so Florence could put their lolly sticks into a bin. They pulled over in front of a block of shops so August could consult his map, not because Florence had gotten them lost when she remarked the line of ducks waddling down a side street away from them would make a beautiful photo on the fridge resulting in a duck chase. They stopped shortly after that to use the toilet.
"Darling," August said pleasantly, his casual demeanor back in place once more, so casual in fact that one of his arms rested on the door window ledge.
"Yes?"
"Isn't it time we did something about that awful chair in the kitchen?"
"Which chair?" she asked sharply.
"That yellow one," he supplied, feeling sure in the knowledge that the first car yard was around this corner, and therefore content with all things.
"There is nothing wrong with that chair." She replied, and showed her finality of this matter by opening her book and tilting her hat.
"It's chipped," August said.
"So is the Great Wall of China," Florence said with heavy dismissal.
"One of the legs is missing," August carried on, dodging around her non-compliant tone with one of soft compassion, like one would use when telling bad news to a child.
"It's not missing, it's just shorter."
"Well it may as well be!"
"Mmmm."
August participated in the unnecessary task of re-positioning his hands on the steering wheel, mostly because he was sweating profusely but he'd also read online that moving hands about the wheel makes the driver appear worldly and well-endowed. "Well, no one really sits on it..."
"Its much too small for that."
"There's no airflow! You sit on it and your whole back gets sucked into it. And that's the end until you wrench your way out of it!"
Florence turned a page. "Yes. I remember that happening to you."
"And no matter how many times it's painted, paint does not stick to it. It's like a curse."
"Rather is."
"It's like the Antichrist of chairs!"
"I believe so."
"I just can't..." August shook his head in despair. His sweating was hindering his ability to get a good grip on the wheel at this point. He squinted. Surely the car-yard should be here somewhere, they'd turned the corner a good five minutes ago.
"I'm just saying," he started again, "That chair could be our very downfall and it should go, and I know you don't like it, you have ties with that chair, far be it for me to break them, but it has to go."
"Yes," Florence said, "I agree."
But August didn't hear. His hands slipped and the wheel turned left, altering the direction and causing the car to careen into a high chain-link fence. A bush of tall, out of control flowery weeds offered a padding of protection that August could never have dreamed of.
"Goodness!" he exclaimed.
"Oh my!" Florence scrambled out and lifted up her camera.
"ARE YOU USING THE ZOOM FUNCTION?" August called desperately from across her car seat. "YOU HAVE TO USE THE FUNCTION."
"Mhmm."
She took the shot, took another, then slid back into the car and closed her door. "Augustus," she suddenly turned to him as flower heads dropped slowly onto the bonnet.
August felt that he would combust from the effort of holding in all his sweat. His pores simply ached from it. "Dear," he answered curtly.
"We have to go back, I can't remember if I turned the oven off."
Augustus felt a rush of sweat wash over him so extreme he feared he would never be dry again. As a rule of men who sweat a lot, he glanced down at his pants to see if a wet patch was forming on his crotch region, and he caught a glimpse of his femininely simplistic watch ticking up at him.
All is well, it said calmly through synchronized mechanisms and intricate cog systems. All is well.
