[ WP ] Write a short piece based on the object currently to your right/left .

A lot of people walking by this chair would n't even give it a first glance. 
 
 
 Maybe one of those passersby would take a look at me, a man sitting by himself at a small cafe table with one empty chair at his side. But no one would really think about the chair. They'd think about me, just for a moment, and then I would disappear from their minds for eternity. But I would still be here, in real life, sitting down with a cup of coffee that got colder as the minutes passed. 
 
 
 This chair did n't mean anything to anyone. Except for me. Because that was where she sat when she told me. 
 
 
 I've come to this cafe a lot since then. Not for the food, or the service, or the atmosphere. Just to sit here, in this spot, at this table, next to this chair. I used to think it was strange that no one was ever sitting at this table when I came here. How I always had this table to myself, no matter the time of day. Now I just accept it. Whatever force brings me here also keeps people away. It's simpler like that, anyway. 
 
 
 Jane used to sit in that chair beside me. I'd been here by myself many times in the months that have passed, but she and I had been here together far more often than I'd sat here alone. My wife, pleasant and auburn-haired, always tipping the barista and letting me finish her scone or her muffin, even if it was just by getting that last crumb off of her lips. Always sitting in the chair, with me on her left, and every so often, our hands would touch or our eyes would meet, and she would always, always smile when they did. 
 
 
 It was in these chairs that she told me she had the miscarriage. And it was in these chairs that I held her as she cried, looking over her shoulder at the wood grain of the table and the porcelain saucers on which our cups rested, not seeing the other patrons, not hearing anything but the gasping breath of Jane as she buried her face in my shirt and poured her torn soul out onto me. 
 
 
 Four months of her switching to decaf in this cafe stopped with Jane's wrenching tears on my shoulder, and from that point on, there was nothing that I could say. 
 
 
 The feeling of losing touch with the person closest to you is awful. I watched Jane slip away, and I tried to bring her back, but I could n't do it. I tried. I did all I could. And no matter how much I tell that to myself, I never believe it. There had to have been something more I could have done, if I could have just seen what was really happening a little bit sooner. Maybe... If I had been stronger, more willing to act, maybe this chair next to me would n't be empty, and she would still be alive. 
 
 
 But she was n't. Jane bore the blackness of our loss for two months before she killed herself. Pills. Pills and her body on the kitchen floor, fallen from the chair at the table, finally knowing peace, or at least that's another thing that I told myself when I pictured how her eyes were open when I found her. 
 
 
 I looked down at my coffee, at the last bits of steam it was giving off before it slipped into lukewarm obsolescence, and I wondered why I would come to the place where my life began to fall apart. After that day with Jane, each day that followed was worse. Everything after that day in this cafe was bad. Coming back here would n't make it better. I could n't start fresh and bring her back to life. I could n't put her in that chair and kiss the sugar from her lips. 
 
 
 All I can do is drink cold coffee and remember when I had something beside me that was n't an empty chair.
