The Sofa “Dream”
Arthur and Emily had been courting for two years. Emily would stay over at Arthur’s when his mother went away to the countryside or to visit her friend in London. They treasured those fleeting moments. But summer faded. Though September still clung to warm, golden days, the rains would soon come, and Arthur’s mother no longer spent every weekend at the cottage. Now they could only wait for her occasional trips to London—but those were rare.
The young lovers grew restless.
“Arthur, don’t you love me? Don’t you want to stand by me, for better or worse?” Emily’s words carried the faintest hint—it was time to think of marriage.
They lingered outside her house, unable to part for half an hour.
“What makes you say that?” Arthur stepped back, searching her eyes. “I’d marry you this instant, but where would we live? I can’t afford to rent yet, and you’ve another year of university. Unless you’d live with my mother. Or yours—but your parents’ house is small. Let’s just wait a little. Once you’ve finished your degree—”
“But I can’t bear saying goodbye like this every day, waiting for your mother to leave. My parents keep asking why you haven’t proposed.” Emily drew a breath, but instead of a sigh, a stifled sob escaped.
“Em, I promise I’ll think of something. I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” she echoed.
“Good. Come on.” Arthur took her hand firmly.
“Where?”
“Your place. I’ll ask your father for your hand. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
“Let’s go!” Emily brightened.
Hand in hand, they stepped inside.
“Come in, you two,” her mother welcomed them warmly. On the kitchen table, four teacups and a plate of biscuits and sweets waited, as if expected.
“I saw you through the window—half an hour saying goodbye.” Her mother chuckled at Emily’s startled look. “No more loitering in the cold. Winter’s coming. And yes, we know you’ve been staying together.” At that, Emily flushed. “Your father and I have no objections to you marrying.”
“We shan’t impose,” her father added. “We understand you’d want your own home. A colleague at work is selling a one-bed flat. I thought of you at once. So—”
“Thank you, Dad!” Emily exclaimed.
“Don’t rejoice yet. Arthur looks none too pleased.”
Arthur met her father’s gaze squarely.
“You’re not wealthy. It’s shameful to take such a gift. I’m strong—I can earn our home myself.”
“What’s shameful?” Her father frowned. “We’d buy it, not steal it. Who else should we help but our children? This house came to us from my parents. Now it’s our turn to set you up. If it shames you, work hard—buy a bigger place later. This is for Emily, so she’s happy. And she’s happy with you. Conscientious lad.” His stern gaze softened as it lingered on his daughter, then hardened again on Arthur.
Under the table, Emily squeezed Arthur’s hand—*Don’t argue. Say yes, for me.*
“Thank you,” Arthur muttered, unconvinced.
A week before the wedding, Emily’s white dress hung ready, invitations had been sent, and the restaurant booked.
“Arthur, we’ve no sofa in the flat,” Emily fretted—already calling it *ours*. “Where shall we sleep? The floor?”
“Not a chance. We’ll buy one.”
“When?” she pressed.
So they went to the furniture shop, wandering between rows of sofas of every size and upholstery. Emily tested each, eyes closed, until she settled on one—modest but perfect.
“A fine choice,” a saleswoman remarked. “You won’t regret it. Last one left.” She extolled its merits. “Try it yourself,” she urged Arthur.
He sat beside Emily, who instantly curled into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Newlyweds?” the woman asked, though neither wore a ring.
“Next week,” Emily beamed.
“Congratulations. A splendid way to begin—with a sofa. Comfortable?”
“Deliciously.” Emily sighed. “How much?”
The saleswoman turned the price tag toward them.
*Sofa “Dream,”* Emily read—and gasped at the sum.
“Dreams don’t come cheap,” the woman mused.
“But—”
“You like it?” Arthur whispered.
“Are you joking? It’s heaven.”
“Then we’ll take it.”
“Excellent choice.”
The next day, the sofa arrived. When the movers left, Arthur and Emily sank into it, kissing.
In her white dress, Emily dazzled. Arthur couldn’t look away, clasping her hand even at the table—as though afraid she’d vanish.
“What’s so special about her? Plenty of prettier girls,” his best man muttered.
“None better for me. You’ll understand when you fall.”
“Not likely. No woman’s worth surrendering freedom.”
“Arguing?” Emily swept over, reclaiming her new husband.
Guests swarmed with congratulations, each claiming a kiss. They danced, competed, kissed to cries of *”Kiss the bride!”* Emily smiled through exhaustion, aching in her heels and heavy gown. Arthur longed to be home, alone with his wife at last…
Finally inside, Emily kicked off her shoes, instantly diminutive. Arthur lifted her, carrying her to the sofa…
Evenings found them there, sharing their days before the telly. Emily adored it—it seemed to cradle her. Every quarrel and reconciliation unfolded on its cushions. Every decision was made upon it. It was the heart of their home.
Autumn passed, then a snowy winter. Come spring, Emily prepared for finals, but Arthur grew distant, deflecting her questions with weary silence.
Then, at their first anniversary, his best man brought a striking new woman. Emily, playing hostess, cleared plates.
Returning, she found Arthur deep in conversation with the woman—on *their* sofa. Her heart clenched. She herded everyone back to the table.
Later, she confronted him.
“We just talked. Jon left her stranded—I was being polite.”
“Polite?” Emily seethed. “On *our* sofa.”
“Where else? We’ve only the one.”
That night, for the first time, they slept apart on its breadth, backs turned.
Morning brought no reconciliation. They parted silently for work, sat separately in the evenings. Emily ached.
One rainy afternoon, a power cut sent her home early. Battling the wind, she headed for Arthur’s office, resolved to reconcile.
“Emily!” Jon hailed her. “Looking for Art? Fancy a coffee first?”
Weary, she agreed.
Over lukewarm tea, Jon mused, “Never understood his taste. That new colleague of ours—now she’s his type. Flashy, glamorous.”
Emily’s spoon stilled.
“Forget I said anything. He only loves you.”
She fled, wind tearing at her coat, rain stinging her cheeks. *So it wasn’t paranoia.*
At home, she collapsed on the sofa, hugging a cushion, and wept herself to sleep.
Arthur woke her, concerned. “You’re shaking. Ill?”
*He loves me. He must.*
“Em, something’s wrong. Tell me.”
“I saw Jon. He hinted at you and that colleague—the one at our anniversary. I believed you…”
Arthur faltered, eyes darting. Excuses tumbled out.
“Enough.” She stood. “Just go.”
He packed haphazardly and left.
Days blurred. Emily ignored calls, barely ate. Her mother came, alarmed.
Once, she spotted Arthur on the street—haggard, unrecognisable. She nearly reached for him.
Alone on the sofa, she traced where he’d sat, straining for the sound of his return.
Then—a sharp knock.
She opened the door.
Arthur stood there, worn but determined.
“May I come in?”
She stepped aside.
Inside, he sank onto the sofa. “God, I’ve missed this.” He exhaled. “Em, forgive me. I tried living without you—I couldn’t. I saw you the other day. You’re hurting too.”
“I wanted to touch you,” she admitted.
“Em, I love you.”
“Or the sofa?” she half-laughed.
“Both.” He grinned. “Remember buying it? You knew at once it was right, then balked at the price. Remember what the saleswoman said?”
*”Sofa ‘Dream.’ Dreams cost dear,”* Emily echoed.
“Maybe—” they began together, then laughed—tension snapping.
They reached for each other—first glances, then hands.
*How did I live without him?* Emily thought.
*She’s so small. Mine. Let her forgive me,* Arthur prayed.
Life isn’t perfect. Love isn’t immune to wounds. But theyYears later, when their grandson curled up on that same sofa for his first nap, Emily whispered to Arthur, “Funny how some dreams outlast us all.”
