By Hallie Oakwood
I got the note. My couch broke up with me, refusing to be sat on anymore. It blamed sweaty pants, chip crumbs, sticky remote. I explained I would change clothes after the subway; it didn’t help.
I don’t need you. I had other chairs; I could do this. After scowling in defiance, I still steam cleaned it, quit television, played jazz, promised I would never sprawl eat again, sewed it red silk cushions and thumb pricked myself embroidering hearts.
Even after cough dousing myself with eau de cologne, it still rebuffed me. I never thought just to sell it instead.
* * *
Hallie Oakwood is an art teacher and writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ink Sweat & Tears, Micromance Magazine, 101 Words, Flash Phantoms, The Wise Owl and others.