The chair.

When Chris moved in last year, there was very little in his apartment that he brought with him. I had a fully (and cutely) furnished place, so there wasn't a need to bring much. There were the books, of course.

This is how our bedroom looks now, and this is just a sampling; the rest of our books 

are in the office and downstairs, tucked in every conceivable cranny.

And the chair. The one piece of furniture he was really attached to, the one that he bought at a vintage store because it spoke to him.

Spoke of '60s-era orange/saffron/brown colors, apparently. I was dubious.

Until I sat down in it. Mama mia, that is one comfortable chair. Like sitting in a cloud.

So we tried to make it blend in (because it's not going anywhere--we nearly got annulled over trying to get this thing up the stairs and through the tightest doorway ever, so this thing stays). Painted the walls blue. Tossed the orange pillows I got from former employees in Pakistan. A little hand-me-down foot stool. Make the chair look like it's there on purpose.

I've never been totally sold on how "intentional" it looks, other than when I see Chris retreat to it to read in the mornings, or on a Saturday afternoon. Then I know it belongs here. It's part of our house.