My husband has a recliner that should have been taken out behind the house years ago.
It is cracked, stained, smells weird when the room gets warm and makes a noise like a dying accordion.
He says it is comfortable. Of course it is. It has slowly formed around his body like a fossil.
I found two socks, forty three cents, an old beef stick wrapper and something I chose not to identify under the cushion.
He says the chair has sentimental value because we had it when the kids were little. So did we have a diaper pail. We did not keep that in the living room.
Can I arrange an accidental curbside disappearance?
I would praise him exactly once, in the same tone used for a toddler.
Do not throw it away secretly. Schedule its funeral openly.
Throw the chair out and blame structural failure.
My husband announces chores too. I announce nothing and somehow dinner appears.
One dish is not a love language. It is one dish.
The bar is underground and he still wants applause.
A grown man can wash a pan without a documentary crew.