A short short story about... something.

The tired old rocking chair seemed to have been built around him, so well did it fit. He liked sitting in it, close to the hearth. The chair groaned softly as he reached for the pile of newspapers neatly stacked alongside. He reached for the top sheet and began to crumple it into a loose... a loose... thing... a ball. Yes, a ball. He knew that. He knew something else, too. He squinted, tilted his head. His gaze drifted upward, toward the corner of the room. Something. Something. What? He crumpled the wad tighter, compacting it with the tips of his fingers. Then he set it into the firebox, alongside the still-glowing remains of another. A tendril of white smoke drifted upwards, then it caught. sending fingers of flame to encircl the paper ball, teasing it apart and consuming it. The flame was blue at the base, then white, then yellow, and another color at the tip. The tip was... it was... Burgundy. No, not that... burgundy is a... a... in a glass. Orange! The flame was orange and yellow and white and blue and she would surely love seeing it. He turned to call her name. Her name.... He squinted. The chair creaked again as he reached for another sheet of paper. He stopped. What was it? A thought had occurred to him... something he wanted to think about. What? Margie would know. Margie! Of course... and she would marvel at the colors in the... the... hot thing. He looked into the firebox, but the flame had reduced to a glowing cinder. He gave a final, deliberate squeeze to the paper ball in his hands and set it upon the remains of the other. The chair groaned as he reached for the pile of newspapers. There! He almost remembered, almost had it, the thing he wanted to think about. He crumpled the paper slowly, deliberately, while Margie hummed softly in the kitchen and baked chocolate chip cookies.