Afterwards, he moved out of the house and rented a small one bedroom apartment. He’d seriously considered a studio, but as it was his plan to spend most of his time by himself, he figured that the change of scenery might be needed to keep him from climbing the walls.

There wasn’t a lot of furniture he took from the house, certainly not the bed, which he replaced with a single bed, to remind himself that he wasn’t expecting company, not that kind, anyway. He did take the futon couch, which he’d always liked and was big enough to sleep on without even unfolding it.

He liked having the occasional friend visit, but liked giving them the bedroom, especially if it was a couple, and sleeping on the futon himself. That way he didn’t feel trapped in his own place, and friends were welcome to stay as long as they liked.

He’d noticed that nobody really wanted to stay that long in New Jersey, though.

The first piece of actual furniture he bought was a Morris chair for reading. The Morris is sort of a proto-lazy-e boy recliner, designed back in the late 1800s by a guy named, well, Morris. His favorite feature of the chair was the wide flat arms where a cup of coffee could perch.

After he’d angled it in the corner of the room with a perfectly adjusted reading lamp (that’s how you know this is a work of fiction) for company, he played back Marilyn Monroe’s cover of Irving Berlin’s “You’d Be Surprised” in his mind.

“At a party/Or at a ball/I’ve got to admit/He’s nothing at all/But in a Morris chair/You’d be surprised.”

One can hope, I suppose.

(see…I can write vaguely autobiographical short fiction)