Silas Sharp and the Case of the Missing Tuesday: Chapter

 Chapter Four: The Armchair of Avoidance

Dr. Calico Verde and I found Randy Ellison at the laundromat. We spotted him folding clothes like the machines were sacred and he was their high priest. These were not his clothes unless Randy was into wearing cute pastel jumpers and floral print maxi dresses. If he was, he would get no judgment from me. Either way, he was folding whatever came out of the dryer with a monk-like reverence. He wore a flannel coat over his ragged sweatshirt and faded jeans.

Dr. Calico Verde stood beside me, arms crossed, eyes tracking every fold.

“He always comes here on what used to be Tuesdays,” she whispered. “This came up on in our sessions. Daisy would come with him.”

We walked in together. The bell over the door chimed like a bad omen with manners.

“Randy Ellison,” I said. “You’re laundering grief in public again.”

He didn’t look up. “I can’t hear you. It’s Tuesday. And Tuesdays don’t exist.”

“Not buying that, my friend,” I said. “You have put Tuesday back in place, Randy.”

He paused mid-fold, squinting at a black crop top like it contained fine print. Then his eyes found her.

“Dr. Verde?”

She gave a small nod. “Hey, Randy.”

He froze. “Is it... really you?”

“Yeah,” she said gently. “It’s me. Not a memory. Not a suggestion. Just me.”

He dropped the top. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I know,” she said. “But here we are.”

He turned to me, cautious. “Who are you?”

“Silas Sharp,” I said, stepping forward. “Metaphysical detective. I find misplaced things—car keys, truth, and lately, days of the week.”

“You working with her?”

“We’re on a temporary existential coalition,” I said. “You’ve got a Tuesday-sized hole in your life, and it’s leaking into everyone else’s.”

He sat on an unassuming chair with a metal frame and gray cloth seating and backing. The kind designed by someone who hated the human spine. It was the only chair of that nature in the laundromat.

“So, I skipped some Tuesdays,” he said. “Big deal.”

Randy didn’t respond at first. He stared at the empty dryer. Then he reached over and refolded the towel he’d dropped. This time, slower.

“It is a big deal,” I told him. “You’ve thrown of the delicate balance of time.”

“Time is a construct,” he said, picking up the crop top to fold it. He didn’t look at us.

“Everything’s a construct,” I said. “Language. Memory. Sandwiches. But only one of those will drag your soul across a calendar like a sack of wet beaver pelts.”

“Silas,” Calico placed a gentle hand on my forearm. “Let me talk to him.”

She took a few tentative steps toward Randy, who now stared straight ahead—eyes empty and wide.

“Randy,” she said to him. “I know you’re hurting but you’re affecting everyone.”

“Please,” he said with contempt. “I’m helping everyone. Who needs Tuesdays? What purpose does Tuesday serve? Think about it. Monday is the start of the week. I don’t mind Monday. I’ve always thought of it as a fresh start. Wednesday has some weight to it. Make it through Wednesday and you’re on the other side of the week. Thursday is like Christmas Eve, all that anticipation and excitement for the big day: Friday. Everyone loves Friday. The weekends are endgame. You want to be there for what Saturday and Sunday bring. Tuesday, though? Who gives a shit about that day? No personality. No purpose. No meaning.”

“Tacos,” I informed him. “Tuesdays are for tacos. Everyone knows that.”

“Taco Tuesday is just a specific construct,” he retorted. “And, frankly, I find it to be a passive aggressive form of cultural appropriation. Tuesdays suck. They gotta go.”

The three of us sat in silence, while the dryers spun and time began, just faintly, to hum back into place.

That’s when the room shifted. Not the air—not exactly. More like the priority of matter rearranged itself. Like the laws of physics stepped outside for a smoke break. I caught a scent—cinnamon, mildew, static electricity, and nostalgia curdled into a single note. Like someone had boiled Christmas, shame, and a hospital visit into a tea bag.

“I know that smell,” I muttered. “Back up. Back away from him.”

Calico tensed. “What is it?”

Randy stood, one hand clutching something under his coat. A dull bronze armrest, frayed upholstery. Aiming the armrest like a TV remote, he pointed it at the vending machine that used to contain snacks once upon a time. And then it appeared, impossibly: an armchair that hadn’t been there moments before.

The burnt orange piece sat where the vending machine used to be—buttonless, ageless, humming slightly with the thrum of deferred emotions. One leg was shorter than the others, causing it to lean just so. You could almost hear it whisper: Not today. I knew what this was. I hadn’t seen it in person but was aware of its existence. The Armchair of Avoidance.

“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “We’re not here to punish you.”

“I know,” Randy said. “But I still can’t face it. Tuesdays… they come with too many memories.”

He rested a hand on the chair’s back and turned to Calico. “You told me in one of our sessions that grief ferments. Well, I’m not ready to drink it yet.”

“That chair doesn’t just skip a day,” I said to him. “It skips accountability. You stay in there long enough, and you start losing your ability to accept anything. You’ll forget how.”

Randy smiled faintly. “Maybe I’ll finally forget the word goodbye.”

“Randy—” Calico stepped forward.

But he was already sitting down.

The chair hissed softly. The world folded in around him like a file being archived. One click. Then another. A shimmer of light bent toward him like time itself was nodding in agreement.

“Maybe I’ll come back,” he said. “When Tuesdays stop looking like tombstones.”

Then he vanished.

Chair and all.

Calico stood in the silence that followed, watching the empty space where grief had just refused to heal.

“The Armchair of Avoidance,” I said, standing in the spot where the chair sat only seconds earlier. “No wonder he’s  been skipping Tuesdays. He used metaphysical furniture.”

Calico was still staring. “Where do you think he went?”

“Not where,” I said. “When. The Chair of Avoidance doesn’t skip time. It shelves it. But metaphysical furniture isn’t something you buy at your local home furnishings store. How did he get it?”

Dr. Verde walked away, head hung in contemplation. I noticed a look of regret on her perfectly angular face. It was the look one has after eating too many convenience store bean burritos at 2 a.m. You ask yourself, why did I do that? That’s when it hit me. Calico reached the laundromat door and looked back at me.

“You gotta be kidding me,” I said.

It was her. She scored Randy the Armchair of Avoidance.

She shot me a sad look before leaving the laundromat.