I’m not talking to her. I am staying right here in my office until she gets rid of one. I have somewhere to sit in my office. One comfy leather chair. It’s not like I can sit in the living room.
“Frank, you’re being ridiculous.”
Scatter cushions. What are scatter cushions? What is the point of them? I hate them. Despise them. Or perhaps I’m missing something in my old age. Perhaps I need someone to explain to me what a sofa is used for. Because apparently, it isn’t something 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? They don’t even match. Our sofa already has two cushions. And she’s just flung money at another four. That’s six. She’s shoving me off the sofa to make room for cushions!
“Frank Wiggal, come out of there. We are having a discussion,” her voice pierces through my office door, though it’s distant like she’s still ruminating in the kitchen. “Frank!”
“I am not discussing your silly cushions, Maggie.”
“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,” she says softly.
“They get in the way of mine.”
“But Frank…” She pushes open the door. Her beautiful blue eyes are wide and uncompromising. The sunlight from the window washes over her honey hair, and those laughter lines break down my defence.
“Okay.” I sigh. “But no more!”
“Oh, Frank, thank you.” She races over and drops a kiss on my cheek. “I knew you’d come round.”