Difference of Opinion

A Comfortable Place to Rest

I sit slouched in my favourite armchair. It's tense and squishy, especially against my hips and lower back. I've had it for four years now—bought it when I first moved in with Derek. We threw ourselves into our car, drove to the nearest op shop and pointed to the first chair we saw. It was $25.99. The first few months, it wasn't bad. But because I was the only one to ever sit in it, the chair became moulded to my body. At least, that's what I think since Derek always complains that his ass flattens the cushion. He says that he'll one day pop the cushion for good, that neither of us will have anywhere to place our ass.

It's fine because I sit here so often that I've claimed the spot. We must buy another one day, one with a rock-hard pillow; one that can keep his heavy body upright. But now, as I lean into its tight fitting, I don't care. I give a deep sigh, stretching my legs out. Resting my head to the side, closing my eyes, everything of me feels so supported, as if my whole body is being kept in a state of eternal ecstasy.

"Lex!" The clumsy jolt of the front door opening startles me. It's Derek's voice calling me. Is it three thirty already? I roll my eyes over to the clock on the wall. The long arm is stretching out to the six. The short arm is pointing at the one. One thirty?

"Lex!" he calls again, but his voice sounds indistinct. He's probably gone to our bedroom to find me. It doesn't make sense to me though. I'm always in the armchair, either resting, reading or watching television. Occasionally, I'll be out CV dropping, but after three failed jobs, I've almost given up on that. It's easier to just stay home. Every day Derek comes into the house, a few minutes after three thirty, dawdles into the lounge, unties his apron, crumbles it into his hand and throws it onto the ground next to me.

"I'm in here!" I say.

"That damn chair again?" His voice gradually gets louder, as his feet drag against the ground.

"Why are you home so early?"

He finally walks, slouched down, into view. But as soon as he passes the door frame, he collapses to his knees.

"Derek?" I say, hopping to my feet, rushing to him and kneeling down. "What are you doing?"

"Lex," he says. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"...do you love me?"

I freeze uncomfortably in place, then fold my legs together onto the floor. The scratchy grey wool pokes into my skin. I've always hated our cheap and nasty carpet.

"What kind of a question is that?" I try to stretch out my back.

"Do you, Lex?"

"We told each other this four years ago," I say. "Of course I do."

"I'm not sure I do," he says, staring, unblinking, at the floor.

"You don't love me anymore?"

He looks up at me, then grabs my hand. It's a harsher hold than I've ever felt before.

"I did yesterday," he says. His eyes look scarily sharp. "I know I did. I did. But not today."

I want to tell him to stop being stupid, that of course I love him, of course he loves me. We live together, we have a home, we have furniture, we have that chair that we've had since we moved in, since we told each other we loved each other enough to want to live together. What people in their right mind would keep living together for five years if they simply despised each other?

"The world hates me, Lex," he says.

"You don't know all of the world," I reply bluntly.

"Well, every single part of it I do know, hates me," he says. "Do you love me?"