Stool Psychosis

The boat-building course had only been running for a few weeks and they had not got any further than making stools, a craft that had caused her to fall into a kind of stool psychosis. It was not difficult to detect this when visiting her flat, where dozens of seemingly identical chairs without backs were scattered across the floor, as if she were searching for a seat with the perfect view, without ever managing to find it.

Yes, do sit down, she said a little apologetically and I understood that it was something of a test, that it would say something about me if I were, for example, to choose a corner or sit in the middle of the room, with all the stools surrounding me, almost like an invitation to be invaded.

I needed to calculate my decision a little and when I hesitated for too long she said: So, you are one of those who stand, I would not have thought that of you. Since her voice had an impressed tone to it I chose to remain standing. She herself sat down on the third stool from the left counting from the doorway, with her back to the wall, while I remained where I was, now with my weight more focused on one leg. It is all right if I sit, is it, she asked. Yes, of course, I lied.

Then only silence. A ticking under the temples. Her gaze. My body. Her gaze. This was not at all what I had imagined. Enough, I roared, walked towards the hall and said, almost as irritated: Goodbye. She came towards me with a smile and stated bluntly: Not even a minute, that will not get you far.