Luda’s chair
Lara Vapnyar : Luda’s apartment was almost entirely furnished by her daughter. There was a rickety kitchen table that Luda’s daughter had used when she first came to America. There was a flowery sofa that Luda’s daughter’s friends had found too tacky. There was a black bookcase that had appeared in Luda’s apartment after her daughter bought a set of light-brown shelves.
Only one thing was Luda’s own acquisition—a leather armchair with scratched legs and a big slash across the back. Luda had found it next to a pile of garbage about six blocks from her home. She had called a taxi and paid the driver five dollars for delivery and another five for dragging the thing upstairs. By the time he got it to her apartment, Luda was feeling happy and generous, so she added two more dollars and half of an Entenmann’s apple pie. The armchair had been Luda’s prized possession ever since. She especially enjoyed the low groan it made when she sat down. This was the groan of somebody who was profoundly annoyed with Luda but still loved her very much.
So sweet, the last line.
