Bloom Fresco High Chair Novels & Stories

A​nd the be‍d. I stared a​t the ma​ttre‍ss. It sa‌gged‌ in the middle l​ike a hammock. The bedspread was a floral pat​tern from the 1970s. It looked​ l​ike‌ it held‍ the DNA of a‍ thous‌an‌d stranger⁠s. "‌I will take the chair," I said, pointing to a stained armchair in t‌h⁠e corner. "Lorenzo, the chair has cigarett‍e burns on i⁠t," Chloe sai⁠d. "And pro​bably flea‌s."

For the first time all morning, I stood a little taller. +++ The dining room’s ceiling glittered with crystal chandeliers that dripped like luxury ice. A white linen cloth stretched across the long walnut table, eight meters of polished control. Plates arrived one after another from staff wearing white gloves. But none of that was the focus. The focus was two small kids—two universes about to collide in a sugar-coated explosion. Ash sat in a navy-cushioned booster chair, tiny legs dangling, fingers spinning a personalized plastic fork with his name printed across it.

I roll my eyes, and excitedly turn to my laptop and begin browsing baby furniture online. I choose French provincial style furniture for the nursery at home, and modern baby furniture for the office. I choose a medium-sized playpen, and a cute highchair that also converts into a desk. Imagining the set-up, I try and put my finger on what I'm missing. A rocking chair to feed and rock the baby to sleep in. I choose a modern rocking chair with grey fabric; I like that it looks like a recliner. I add a few sets of unisex clothes to the order, a change table, a bouncer, baby wipes, nappies, bibs, bottles, a bottle steriliser, and some formula.

I said quietly as he moved out of the way we headed to three identical bowls of boring cereal and Bri, setting coffee to steep on the stove. Beau came back with a half gallon of milk and a wood crate. He set the milk on the table and turned the crate over near the table using it as a chair. I took a seat and Bri gave Beau a nod of thanks before setting the cups of coffee on the table. Bri didn't miss a beat reaching for the milk. And digging into something most of us humans would say tastes like cardboard. She just happily ate, content to sip her coffee in between bites.

The dining furniture was retouched and the walls were renovated and painted with a cherry yellow and orange. There was a kitchen with a long island made from a gray marble counter with four leather tall stools, and an inbuilt freezer that were fitted as drawers, the cupboards were made from matching oak panels. The chrome pots and pans glistened as the light shone on them from the sliding window. He could see a view of the beach from the window, the wind blowing the waves gently. “Carl! Carl! Where are you..?” I called him as he took out a glass jug of freshly squeezed lemon juice.

"This is—wow." Zac chuckled softly. "My grandfather was a big reader. He quoted literature as if he were a human book himself." I turned to look at Zac, my eyes lit up. "Zac, this is amazing." Zac shrugged nonchalantly, smiling. "I thought you'd like it." He walked over to one wall, skimming the shelves until he pulled out a book. "I wanted you to have this." I looked at the book he held out for me to take. It was called "Bloom" by Kelle Hampton. I smiled at the title, meeting his eyes. "Wha—but why?"

"What is this monstrosity doing blocking the primary axis of the foyer?" "It's a chair, Julian. You sit in it. Groundbreaking concept, I know, given that your current furniture feels like it was sculpted by a sadist," she replied, leaning against the kitchen counter and taking a slow, defiant sip of her coffee. "It adds warmth. It breaks up the monotony of your fifty shades of grey."