Floral Upholstery

I have transformed the east window into an impenetrable fortress. The prized real estate features a wingback chair upholstered in a violently loud hibiscus print, and claiming it requires the precision of a black ops campaign. My knees, entirely stripped of cartilage and functioning purely on spite, pop with the rhythmic cadence of sniper fire as I secure the perimeter. I must beat Arthur. Arthur covets my morning sunlight. He approaches with his aluminum walker, its tennis-balled legs squeaking across the polished linoleum like a pack of asthmatic mice.

"Deliver me from the hand of the unrighteous," I mutter, gripping the wooden armrests. The unrighteous, in this specific instance, is simply Arthur attempting a flanking maneuver to read his newspaper in my solar quadrant. When you have surrendered your driver's license and your ability to open a pickle jar without a rubber pad, you absolutely do not surrender the good chair. You defend your rock of habitation with extreme prejudice.

Arthur realizes a frontal assault is futile and resorts to psychological warfare. He settles into the inferior sofa across from me and deliberately adjusts his hearing aid until it emits a piercing, continuous feedback shriek. I counter this sonic attack by extracting a stubbornly sealed butterscotch wrapper from my pocket. I spend a full seven minutes slowly unpeeling the candy with the excruciating, deliberate crinkle of a man who has absolutely nowhere to be.

The morning sun crests the sprawling oaks, but neither of us registers the warmth. We are locked in a tactical stalemate. Arthur glares over his crossword puzzle, his hearing aid screaming into the void, while I chew my butterscotch with aggressive, open-mouthed dominance. The solarium is a battlefield, and I will not yield this floral throne until the dining hall chimes for meatloaf.