A Chair Named Balthazar...

"You may not want to sit in Balthazar, dear," Aunt Beatrice said. "He doesn't like strangers."
Milly stopped and stared at the chair.
"You named it?" she asked incredulously.
"Him, dear," Aunt Beatrice corrected. "And of course I named him. You named your dog Goldie, didn't you?"
"But Goldie's alive," Milly argued.
"So is Balthazar."
As if in agreement, the old armchair gave a soft, creaking mutter, and flexed its curled armrests like hands. The claw-carved feet underneath it bent in a way that wood shouldn't have been able to, and the entire chair shuffled sideways a little so that it was clear to Milly that it wasn't going to let her sit in it. Balthazar sidled across the woven carpet to the other side of the room, and eventually settled near the edge of the couch, where Aunt Beatrice could reach it from where she was sitting. She smiled and gave it an absent pat on the armrest without looking up from her book.
Milly sighed and sat down in a metal folding chair.


I admit it--I was bored when I wrote this. At least I wasn't trying to sleep, and it wasn't 2:00 in the morning when I got the idea.