Yesterday you ask him to mail a simple postcard and he drops it in a puddle. When he brings it back to you it’s soggy like an old cracker dipped in salt water. Always this way with him. He doesn’t want to act responsibly. He doesn’t want to be your man. If you had one ounce of guts you’d pull up stakes and leave. You’d empty the kitchen of your mom’s bone china she collected with A&P coupons over the years, the stainless silverware passed down by your aunt Rose, the linen tablecloth from a yard sale.
The rest, technically, belongs to him. The couch and the two brown chairs, the coffee table, the lamps, the bed and dresser. The rug was left at the curb by someone who had no need of a rug anymore. You both carried it into the truck so technically it should be cut down the middle with a box cutter.
More fiction at Used Furniture.
