My Couch

I need to tell you that I love my couch. It’s a huge sectional, deep red, covered with colorful blankets my mom crocheted.

When we were dating, my husband drew a couch, we colored it – purple and red stripes. We dreamed of getting a couch just like it one day. We didn’t, but we did get this perfect red sectional.

Heather came over one summer day during the pandemic. I think I invited her, trying to be nice, trying to be friends, trying to show my husband that I was trying to be understanding of their frienship.

I had wine, but she brought a pitcher of margarita mix, in a basket with cups and straws.

She met us on the deck, it was early pandemic times. We were being Covid-cautious: not having people in the house, meeting friends out by the fire pit when it was cold, staying home instead of going out. Well, I was. My husband was fucking Heather in her van parked behind the pet supply store, and sometimes in her bedroom while her husband was on vacation, or maybe at work.

But, I mean, at least I was being cautious.

On the deck we talked and laughed, and she told me she thought that year was going to be huge for me, “a big transition. You are going to break free…”

I mean, she wasn’t wrong.

On her way home, Heather had to use the bathroom, so we went through the house. She stopped and looked at our couch.

“Oh, the red couch!” She said longingly

I figured she was talking about the times we had all sat around chatting. She was pretty dramatic.

Who knows.

One response to “My Couch”

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