It smells of him. Once brown, age turned soft leather paler, its head rest indented with the shape of his head. Wide cushioned arms creased into different shades of light and dark.

For hours, seven days a week, long fingers played with its electronic control. Up. Down. Recline mode to show off unblemished soles of Tartan slippers.

Two Shoes, lying at his feet, eyed the cat flap, reluctant to leave and lose the chance of sleeping on that comfortable chair at a moment’s notice.

At last the chair, positioned beside a picture window from which, beyond, life passed by in muffled sounds, became vacant.

Now she stays outside, nose pressed up against glass as if in hope that the waiting game will soon be over.