There is a couch in my front yard and as if that is not bad enough it is raining. My husband is laughing as I lament our slow decline into what my elders used to delicately refer to as “white trash.”
The only thing worse than a couch on your porch is one on your lawn. When the neighbors drive by and slow down a bit to stare I cringe. A little piece of my dignity dies. This is a humiliation I can barely bear.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take it to the dump…eventually.” Jim chuckles in my general direction as he walks by. I look out the window and stare up at the rain clouds. They mock me with their raindrops. I watch as they land on my old, milk-stained, ripped, dog-haired couch.
Earlier my dog pushed open the front door, bolted to the couch, jumped on it, and then settled down as if he were going to take a nap. As if he were chaining himself to the couch in protest. He could not be consoled. He thinks the new couch smells funny and is missing all of the cozy lumps he’d become accustomed to. Even before that, I had watched Jim sit down on the couch, smile and say, “We can roast marshmallows from right here!” as he gestured toward the little charcoal grill that had been left on the front lawn since the fourth of July.
Moments later, Jim catches me still frowning out the window. He laughs again as he passes by.
Finally, I just walk away and pray the dump run comes sooner than I think.