Watching the Box

The idiot box sits, in an oaken cabinet, in the far corner of the spacious room, a testament to the generation of distance that placed it in such a precise spot. Opposite the behemoth sits a man of indeterminate age, in a worn leather reclining chair that has outlived the TV by several years. For this man it has always been the most comfortable spot in the entire house, even more than his own bed. He sits here every day, as he has for years, staring at the TV, which is never on. A while ago there was an electrical surge and he has neglected to look into its cause or to figure out a fitting solution. So he replays shows in his head to pass the time. His chair is just that comfortable, just that comforting to him.

This man had a wife, too, but she has gone to another room, with her own warm, inviting chair, to watch the shows in her head. He has not seen her for many years and sometimes he finds himself missing her. A tear will escape his normally dry eyes, causing him to shift in the chair. Seasons pass. His thinning hair grows white while the TV gets covered in dust. Outside the window others go about their lives, few pausing to look in, to see how he is. It gets harder and harder to rise from his chair, to get moving. His eyes grow filmy, their light dimming perceptibly as night approaches.

Still he sits in that old chair, legs eternally propped up in his reclined position. The heat is turned off but he cannot feel the chill in the air. No plumes of smoke rise from his hard lips. No one comes. No one knows save the idiot box in the opposite corner which has watched over him by itself for far too long, and it too is silent.

Sam