I’d been asking Tom to get rid of that old couch for months. “Tom,” I’d say, “when are you taking the couch out? It’s practically falling apart!”
So, last Saturday, after watching that moldy piece of furniture use up half of our living room for another week, I finally snapped. I rented a truck, wrangled the thing out by myself, and took it straight to the dump. By the time I got back, I was pretty proud of myself.
When Tom got home later, he barely got past the entryway before his eyes went wide at the sight of the brand-new couch I’d bought. For a second, I thought he’d thank me, or at least smile.
“Tomorrow,” he’d mumble without looking up from his phone. Or sometimes, “Next weekend. I swear, this time for real.”
