I looked around the living room. At Arthur’s crossword books stacked on the end table. At his reading glasses, still on the side table where I’d found them. At his work boots by the back door, which I hadn’t moved since March.
At the couch.
“I know,” I said.
“Do you?” Kate asked.
She didn’t push. That’s one thing about Kate. She learned from her father that sometimes the kindest thing you can do is say one true sentence and then be quiet.
But that night, after she went to bed in her old room, I sat on the couch for a long time looking at the patched armrest.
I thought about all the times I’d begged Arthur to get rid of it. All the times he’d patted the cushion and said, This one makes you sit closer to me.
He wasn’t here anymore to sit close to.
Part Four: Forty Dollars
The next morning, while Kate was at the grocery store, I took a picture of the couch with my phone.
It was a terrible picture. The light from the window made the brown corduroy look even browner. You could see every patch on the armrest. The sagging middle looked like a hammock.
I posted it on Facebook Marketplace. Old couch. Comfortable. Some wear. $40. Must pick up.
I almost deleted the listing three times.
The first time was ten minutes after I posted it. I stood in the kitchen with my thumb over the delete button for a full minute.
The second time was that afternoon, when Kate asked me what I was looking at on my phone. I told her nothing. She looked at me for a long moment and didn’t push.
The third time was that night, when I lay down on the couch for what I knew might be the last time. I put my hand on Arthur’s cushion. I almost deleted it right then.
I didn’t.
On Sunday morning, a message came.
Hi! Is the couch still available? I can pick it up today if that works. I’m furnishing an apartment and it looks perfect.
