by Jake Christie

a story.

“It's not going to fit through the door,” said Gene. He wiped a layer of sweat off his forehead, which his glands quickly conspired to replace. “Not unless you want to cut your couch in half.”

Carson continued holding his end of the couch up, near his waist. He craned his neck and looked past Gene into the apartment. “Maybe if we picot,” he said. He pushed the couch to his right, Gene's left, and scraped paint off of the door frame.

“Stop,” said Gene.

“It's my door,” grunted Carson. “For the next year I can scratch it as much as I want.” He crouched, and for a moment Gene thought he'd set the couch down, but he was just getting a better grip.

“Yeah, okay,” said Gene. “But no amount of scratching is going to get this couch through that door. You're going to have to get a new couch.”

“I paid a lot of money for this,” said Carson. He grunted. “Full price,” he added, with gravity.

“You can get another couch,” pleaded Gene. “People leave them out on the street–”

“Let's try again,” said Carson. “Pick it up.”

Gene sighed and leaned down. They lifted the couch and pushed and pulled, right on the threshold. The couch squeaked and the door groaned and Gene and Carson let out short, jagged breaths, but the furniture would not budge forward.

Gene put down his end and rubbed his hands, trying to get the blood to return. Carson held up his end of the couch, his full price couch, and stared at Gene, refusing to let go.

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