When Tom walked into the living room, his face drained of color as he saw the empty space where the old couch used to be. “Please tell me you didn’t…” he whispered, panic rising in his voice.
But it was too late.
For months, I’d begged him to get rid of that decrepit couch. “Tom, when are you taking it out? It’s falling apart!” He’d always respond with, “Tomorrow,” or “Next weekend.” But tomorrow never came.
Last Saturday, fed up with its moldy, sagging presence, I rented a truck, hauled it out myself, and took it to the dump. When I returned with a sleek new couch, I expected at least a hint of gratitude. Instead, Tom looked at me like I’d committed a crime.
“You… took the couch to the dump?” he asked, his voice tight.
“Of course!” I replied, confused. “You’ve been putting it off for months. It was falling apart, Tom.”
He stared at me, his face pale with panic. “You don’t understand. That couch wasn’t just a couch.”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded.
He grabbed my hand. “We have to go. Now.”
“To the dump?” I asked, bewildered. “Tom, it’s gone! It’s trash!”
His face hardened. “Trust me, you’ll see.”
The drive to the dump was filled with tension. Tom barely spoke, muttering, “I’ll explain when we get there.” When we arrived, he bolted out of the car, pleading with the worker to let him search the pile.
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