“Hey, come over here. Come look at this couch,” Boyfriend calls, flopping down on one of the mammoth sofas in the furniture showroom.
I walk over and survey his newly conquered territory. “Yeah it’s nice. But it looks too big.”
“Too big? What are you talking about? I need a big couch.”
“Sweetie, if we put a couch that big in the living room, where are we going to put the table?”
“Table?” He looks baffled.
“Yeah, you know, a table. That thing with a flat surface and legs where you put food and dishes and sit and eat like civilized humans.”
“You want a table?” His tone is incredulous.
“Um, yes, Boyfriend. I want a table. I didn’t think it was going to be some special concession I’d have to negotiate for.”
“But we didn’t have a table at the old place.”
“Right, we didn’t, because we lived in a cramped shoebox. So we slapped plates down on the coffee table and then wallowed in the piles of crumbs and food stains that got all over the couch cushions and the rug.”
His brow furrows. “Well, I don’t really think there’s gonna be room for a table.”
“Of course there isn’t, if you put a Central Park-sized couch in the living room!”
“But I need a big couch.” He shrugs.
“ALRIGHT!” I take a breath. “It’s a great couch, sweetie. Fabulous. Now come over here and look at these tables.”