**The Sofa “Dream”**
Antony and Emily had been together for two years. Emily stayed over at his place whenever his mother went away—either to her cottage in the Cotswolds or to visit a friend in London. They treasured those fleeting nights, but summer ended. September was still warm and bright, yet the rains would come soon. His mother no longer spent every weekend at the cottage. Now they had to wait for her rare trips to London.
The lovers grew glum.
“Antony, don’t you love me anymore? Don’t you want to be with me through thick and thin?” Emily’s words carried a delicate hint—it was time to think about marriage.
They stood outside her house, struggling to say goodbye for half an hour.
“What makes you say that?” Antony stepped back, searching her eyes. “I’d take you to the registry office right now, but where would we live? I can’t afford rent yet, and you’ve still a year left at uni. Unless you’re willing to move in with my mum—or yours, though your flat’s too small. Let’s wait, just till you graduate—”
“But I can’t keep parting with you every day like this, waiting for your mum to leave. My parents keep asking why you haven’t proposed.” Emily drew a breath, but instead of a sigh, a sob escaped.
“Em, I promise I’ll figure something out. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” she echoed.
“Right. Come on, then.” Antony took her hand firmly.
“Where?”
“To yours. I’ll ask your father for your hand. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“Let’s go!” Emily brightened instantly.
Hand in hand, they stepped into Emily’s flat.
“Come in, you two,” her mother greeted warmly.
Four teacups and a plate of biscuits sat waiting on the kitchen table, as if prepared in advance.
“I saw you from the window. Half an hour saying goodbye,” her mother smiled, catching Emily’s surprised glance. “Enough wandering the streets—winter’s coming. We know you’ve been sharing a bed.” Emily flushed. “Your father and I have no objections to you marrying.”
“We won’t ask you to live with us. We understand young couples want their own space,” her father added. “A colleague’s selling a one-bed flat. I thought of you straightaway.”
“Thanks, Dad!” Emily exclaimed.
“Don’t celebrate yet. Antony’s gone quiet.”
Antony met her father’s gaze squarely.
“You’re not wealthy. I can’t accept such a gift. I’m fit, capable—I’ll earn our home myself.”
“Why ashamed? It’s bought, not stolen,” her father countered, faintly hurt. “Who else should we help but our children? This flat came from my parents—now it’s our turn to give you a start. Earn more later, buy bigger—but for now, take this. It’s for *her* happiness, not yours. And happy she is with you. Too proud, this one.” His stern look softened as it landed on Emily.
Under the table, Emily squeezed Antony’s hand—*please, don’t argue—do this for me.*
“Thank you,” Antony said flatly.
The week before the wedding flew by—dress fitted, invitations sent, venue booked.
“Antony, the flat hasn’t got a sofa. What’ll we sleep on? The floor?” Emily panicked.
“Not a chance. We’ll buy one.”
“When?” she pointed out.
So off they went to the furniture store. They wandered between rows of sofas, testing each. Emily closed her eyes on one—plain but perfect.
“Splendid choice,” a saleswoman chimed in. “Last one left. Try it yourself,” she urged Antony.
He sat. Emily curled into him at once.
“Newlyweds?” the woman asked, though their bare fingers said otherwise.
“Not yet. A week to go,” Emily beamed.
“Lovely way to start. Comfy?”
“Mm. Don’t want to move. How much?”
The saleswoman turned the tag toward them.
*”The Dream Sofa,”* Emily read—and gaped at the price.
“Dreams cost,” the woman philosophised.
“But—”
“You like it?” Antony whispered.
“Are you joking? It’s heaven.”
“Then we’ll take it.”
The next day, the sofa arrived. Once the movers left, they sank into it, kissing.
In white, Emily was radiant. Antony couldn’t stop staring, clinging to her hand as if afraid she’d vanish.
“What’s so special? She’s just a girl—plenty prettier out there,” his best man muttered.
“I don’t want ‘prettier.’ Fall in love—then you’ll understand.”
“Not born yet, the beauty who’d make me give up freedom.”
“Arguing?” Emily reclaimed her groom with a smile.
Guests swarmed her—hugs, kisses, toasts of *”Kiss the bride!”* She hid her exhaustion from heels and heavy skirts. Antony ached to be home, alone with his wife at last…
Finally inside, she kicked off her shoes, suddenly tiny. He carried her to the sofa.
Evenings there became ritual—telly on, sharing their days. Emily adored it, as if it moulded to her. Every quarrel, every tender reconciliation happened there. It saw every decision. Autumn passed, then winter’s snows. Spring brought Emily’s finals. But Antony grew quiet, brushing off her questions with “Just tired,” retreating to the kitchen. Her instincts prickled—this wasn’t fatigue.
At their anniversary party, his best man brought a striking new colleague. Playing hostess, Emily ferried plates to the kitchen—then returned to find Antony deep in conversation with the woman *on their sofa*. Her heart twinged. She hurried guests back to the table.
Later, she confronted him.
“We were just talking. Dan left her stranded—what was I meant to do?”
“On *our* sofa,” she stressed.
“Where else? It’s the only one!”
Their first real fight. Usually, bedtime melted grudges—but not tonight. She faced the wall; he didn’t reach for her. The sofa’s width allowed cold inches between them.
Morning brought no thaw. They parted silently. Evenings, they sat apart. Emily agonised.
Rain slashed down the day her office lost power. She headed for Antony’s work—ready to apologise.
“Emily!” Dan intercepted her. “Here for Tony? Fancy a coffee first?”
Wind-weary, she agreed.
The café chat stumbled.
“Not married?” she ventured. “To that glamorous brunette from our party?”
“Just a coworker. Like I said—no woman’s worth my freedom.”
A sting. *Antony hadn’t told her.*
“Em, forget it. Tony’s always fancied flashy types, not… well, you.” Dan backtracked. “He adores you—”
“Stop.” She stood, rain masking tears. *Had she imagined nothing?*
Numb, drenched, she reached home, collapsing on the sofa. She woke to Antony studying her.
“You’re shivering. Fever?”
*No, he couldn’t… He loves me.*
She sat up, hollow.
“Em, something’s wrong. Talk to me.”
“I saw Dan. He hinted you’re involved with that coworker. The one at our party?”
His evasive glance confirmed it. Excuses tumbled out. Her head throbbed.
“Just *go*.” She fled to the kitchen. He followed, pleading love, but she barely heard.
Later, he packed haphazardly, slammed the door. She wept into the sofa.
Days blurred—ignored calls, untouched meals. Her mother came, worried.
Then, once, she spotted him on the street—gaunt, unrecognisable. She nearly reached for him.
Alone, she relived their happiness on the sofa. *Had he erased it all?* Her fingers brushed the fabric—still warm, as if he’d just risen.
A sharp knock. She ignored it—until it persisted.
“Go away!” she shouted, then wrenched the door open.
Antony stood there—haggard.
“Hi. Can we talk?”
She let him in. He locked the door, shed his coat. She retreated to the sofa. He sat heavily.
“Missed this thing,” he said. “Went back to that shop—none left. Em, I’m a fool. I tried living without you. It didn’t work. I saw you the other day—you looked wrecked too. It’s over there. I’m *lost* without you.”
“I saw you too. Nearly touched you.”
“Em, I love you.”
“Or the sofa?” she scoffed.
“Both. Remember buying it? You knew straightaway—then balked at the price. Remember what the woman said?”
*The Dream Sofa. Dreams cost.*
“Maybe…And years later, when their grandchildren asked about the worn but beloved sofa in the attic, Antony and Emily would exchange a knowing smile and say, “That’s where our life began.”
