When Tom walked into the living room and saw the empty space where our old couch used to be, his face turned pale. Panic flashed in his eyes as he stammered, “Please tell me you didn’t…”
But it was too late. The couch was gone.
For months, I had begged Tom to get rid of that ancient, falling-apart eyesore. “Tom,” I’d say, “when are you taking the couch out? It’s disgusting!”
“Tomorrow,” he’d mutter, barely looking up from his phone. Or, “Next weekend, I promise.”
Spoiler: tomorrow never came.
One Saturday, I had finally had enough. Renting a truck, I single-handedly wrestled the moldy, broken-spring monstrosity out of the house and drove it straight to the dump. By the time I returned with a sleek, new couch, I felt proud of my initiative.
