so: there's this chair, an unexceptional, inexpensive, somewhat old, simple rolling desk chair, in my bedroom, which had rested, out of the way, by the front window. recently, i moved it into the narrow walk between the bed and the dresser, where the comforter sloughs off the foot -- the better to work on a laptop running next to the alarm clock on that dresser -- where it has been for several days, although i move it a bit to get to drawers or squeeze by to operate the windows. it is light and rolls easily, if never straight.
i am accustomed enough to knowing what's where that i often leave the lights off.
just now, on the way to turn off the attic fan, i walked into the room, turned the light on, looked around, and, turning the light off, left again, unsure why i had so purposefully crossed that threshold. the sound of the fan immediately reminded me, so, without turning the light on again, i walked in, skirting the area where laundry might lie, and made my way toward the switch for the fan when my foot fell onto one of the arms of the chair's wheel array.
that's lucky, i thought, as, to trip over this chair in the dark could be dangerous. i imagined a number of ways the molded plastic might maim me in an uncontrolled fall and carefully moved it aside.
i switched off the fan meaning to open the windows; i headed that way until i bumped into the chair.
i can't believe it, i thought, how could i do that twice in such close succession? i found the chair's swiveling back with both hands, moving it to the side, and made my way around the foot of the bed.
having opened both windows i strode, between the bed and dresser, once more, right into that chair.
jackass, i thought, bitterly surprised: i hadn't even walked carefully, like one might, knowing a rolling-office-chair-of-potential-concussion-or-worse lurks, somewhere, there, in the darkness.
anyway, i told you that story so that i could tell you . . .
something.
i don't recall.