Lennie sat on the floor, scrutinizing the chair in front of him, a roll of duct tape dangling from his hand. The chair had definitely seen better days, it was difficult to tell exactly what color or pattern the original upholstery had been; years of Brylcreem from Lennie's hair and grease from take out food had nearly turned the chair's back and the armrests black. The handle that pushed the footrest up was age-worn too. He could afford a new chair, now that one of his exes had remarried, but a new chair wouldn't hold the memories of his daughters sitting on his lap while he read to them. No, somehow the duct tape would have to work yet again.