How do you sleep at night? Not on me anymore, that’s for sure. Now when you drain your third glass of Merlot and can’t drag your ass to bed, you’re passing out on that soulless sectional I saw them deliver from Ethan Allen.

Yes, Greg, I saw. Ever since you and Olivia dropped me here in the dead grass a week ago, I’ve seen it all: the masked mail carrier, the masked meter reader, the masked families trudging by like they’re in a bad Incredibles sequel. I know who stole your last two packages from Amazon, and I’m not telling.

Word on the street is there’s a lot of us getting dumped, thousands, according to the La-Z-Boy at the curb next door. The nerve of you people! Have you forgotten who always had your backside? Who cradled you while you cringed at Tiger King and wept at My Octopus Teacher? Who stared tactfully at the wall while you recreated those cheesy scenes from Bridgerton?

Speaking of cheese, Greg, whose fault is it I don’t look perfect anymore? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t my arms that splashed me with queso dip. Or every other goddamn dip you and Olivia shoveled into your mouths while taking me for granted.

But did I make more than a creak of protest? Of course not. I sat there, year after year, taking it. The same way I took it when you stood on me to change light bulbs. Or when you threw yourself on me, even at your shocking current weight, without a thought for my pocket springs. And don’t get me started on your cats.

A year ago March, I was suddenly working around the clock to support you—soaking up more of your sweat and drool than ever, not to mention those Bridgerton fluids. Disgusting, I know. But you were my person. We’d been together since, what, early grad school? I’ll never forget the day we met at IKEA, you in your Wittgenstein sweatshirt, I in my flat pack. I loved you unconditionally—even during those postdoc, pre-Olivia years when you got stoned on me every weekend and watched shitty reruns. I mean, Happy Days! Arthur “Fonzie” fucking Fonzarelli! Has there ever been greater proof of a couch’s devotion? After a decade of your throw-pillow talk, I assumed you loved me too.

And here’s what really gets me. A couple of months ago, when you and Olivia finally started smiling again, I was happy for you. When you crowed about “vaccine appointments” and “seeing friends again before long,” I felt all warm and fuzzy (and not just because of Kant and Hegel’s hairballs).

Good times, I thought. They deserve this. I hoped the first pal to come over would be Miguel, who always commented on how deep I am.

But then, within days, you were wanting “a fresh look.” You were swiping on Wayfair, ogling plump seats and shapely legs. All while you continued to drape yourself over me like a cheap afghan.

What an idiot I was. I’d seen HGTV. I just never thought it could happen to me.

And now I’m on the street, praying for a new family. No, not the squirrel family nesting under my middle cushion. I mean that nice couple with the old-school hats, who’ve stopped by twice to measure me and the La-Z-Boy. They would never ditch me for some trophy sofa. The thought of us living together—them, me, La-Z—is very cheering.

But not as cheering as the thought that, during your Ethan Allen delivery, I heard the driver ask the other guy, “Aren’t those bedbugs?” Before they brought you the sectional anyway.

In the immortal words of Fonzie: sit on it.


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