Her Side of the Sofa
The sofa is three seats. She never described herself as taking two.
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"Move up."
There was nowhere to move up to. He said it anyway, every night, because it had become the thing he said, and she huffed and shifted two inches and that had become the thing she did.
"That's all you're getting."
"That's all there is."
She put the bowl on herself. It stayed there without a hand on it, and neither of them remarked on that.
The sofa is three seats. She has never once described herself as taking two.
He has watched her do the arithmetic out loud and get it wrong on purpose. Then get it wrong by accident, which is a different thing, and happened later. In February she said the cushions had gone. In May she said the frame was going. In August she said they should think about a bigger one, for the room, because the room could take it.
"You'd have space then."
He said he had space.
"You're right at the edge."
He was right at the edge. He had been right at the edge since spring. Every week he let the edge come to him rather than mention it. Mentioning it would have made it a problem instead of a direction.
"Fine. Then stop complaining."
He had not complained.
She finished the bowl and set it on the arm without sitting up.
"Get me the other one."
"You've had the other one."
"Then get me a third one, babe."
He got up. She spread into where he had been.
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