It all started when he insisted on buying a queen size bed. Things weren’t so great before the bed, but the bed was the last straw. I was six months pregnant, had picked up my whole life and moved across the country to some little broken town where it never snowed and I couldn’t see the beach. And I left my bed back in Allston.

So he went to the store, and came home with a credit card receipt and all these flyers about how extraordinary our new bed would be. How the plush top offered just the right about of support and comfort, how it never had to be flipped.

“And there’s a fifteen year warranty” he said.
“We’re going to have the same bed for fifteen years?”
“Of course we are.”
“But where will it fit?”
“We’ll just put it in the living room here, and when we buy a house it will go in the master bedroom.”
“We’re buying a house?”
“Well yeah, someday, the apartment only has two bedrooms, and the kids need their own rooms.”
“The kids…”
“Our kids.”
“Our kids..” I repeated.