We don’t have enough room for all these chairs as it is, and you’re bringing in more? I don’t care if it’s a bean bag, a bean bag counts if it’s of a certain size and that one is. You needed help lifting it. It almost got away from you. It counts as a chair and we don’t need another chair in this house. Not one covered in beer logos.
Who does all this sitting? People need to be active, be upright, climbing things. Your brother? He doesn’t visit and I’m glad he doesn’t. His children make me feel inadequate. Especially the legless one. You don’t hear it, but when you two leave the room to talk about telescopes they start in. They tell me I’m not tall enough and start asking me about my mole.
And not one of them sits down. Ever. Is that because Mary never lets them stand up? She holds down their legs til they go numb, you told me that. They treat our house like a vacation resort. When really it’s a showroom.
We should have a big sale. That’d show you. Sell all these chairs to that church you hate. That awful preacher, he’d buy them all. I’m going to sell your chairs to the preacher, you hear me?! He’ll sit people in them, right when they’re most vulnerable. Sit them right down and learn all their secrets. He sure learned yours.
I didn’t marry a chair!
I married a lumberjack with at least three novels in him…Maybe a short story collection…