I’m not talking to her. I am staying right here in my office, until she gets rid of one. Mm. This leather chair is comfy. A place to sit. It’s not like I have anywhere else to do that.
“Frank, you’re being ridiculous.”
Scatter cushions. What are scatter cushions? What is the point of scatter cushions? I hate them. I despise them. They take up the entire sofa! Or perhaps I’m missing something in my old age. Please do explain to this old fuddy-duddy what a sofa is used for? Because apparently it isn’t to sit on anymore. Not with all the scatter cushions in the way. Maggie came home today with four more of these oddly shaped bags stuffed with wool…or was it goose feather? Each one had a different pattern. They didn’t even match. Our sofa already has two cushions. And she’s just thrown money at another four. That makes six. She’s shoving me off the sofa to make way for cushions! This is what our marriage has come to.
“Frank Wiggal, come out of there. We are having a discussion.”
Her voice carries all the way from the kitchen through to the lounge and pierces straight through my office door, which is made of solid wood. How? Well, she’s Maggie, that’s how.
“I am not discussing scatter cushions!”
“Frank, this is absurd.” Her voice draws nearer. She’s probably in the lounge, admiring the throne for her polyester-filled monarchy.
“Yes, they are absurd,” I retort.
“They help my back,” her voice turns small and desperate.
“They get in the way of mine.”
“But Frank…” She pushes open the door, her beautiful blue eyes wide and uncompromising. The sunlight from the window washes over her honey hair, and those laughter lines break down my defence.
“Okay.” I sigh. “Maggie, you can have your scatter cushions.”
“Oh, Frank, thank you.” She races over and drops a kiss on my cheek. “I knew you’d come round.”