Short Story | Coffee-Stained Sofa

By Eddlynn Jennifer Mangaoang

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       Brandon shot up from his place on the sofa when he heard some bustling sounds around the house, then groaned in pain as he rubbed his throbbing head. He squeezed his eyes close when the sunlight from the high sun blinded him through the sliding door. 

    "What the fuck?" he said when he saw three men in faded jeans and tucked t-shirts moved to-and-fro in his house, carrying several pots and pans, plants, and figurines out to the front door. "What the hell is happening?"

    "Oh? You're awake?" his wife came into view from the pantry. Her black hair in a messy bun. She's wearing a white t-shirt with a 'Get Wild!' printed in the front tucked in her black shorts, socks, and her Nike shoes adorned her feet. "You don't mind me taking the can goods and noodles in the pantry, right? I mean, they're mostly bought by me."

    "What are you talking about? W-ho, who are these men?"

    "They're from the U-Haul? They're expensive but I needed help."

    "And why are you moving out?" Brandon reached for Stella's bony elbows, but she avoided his hand by turning her back and walking back to the pantry. She opened a big, black garbage bag and shook it. She proceeded to put Top Ramen, Mi Goreng, Span, and other can goods. SHe didn't spare the boxes of mashed potato flakes and cereals. "I asked why you're moving out. Where the fucking hell are you going?!"

    "Wait-," she put a distance between themselves by extending her right arm, palm facing his broad chest. "What are you yelling at me for? I've been losing sleep every single night for the past few weeks waiting for you, then you're just going to yell at me? Bullshit!"

    "I didn't tell you to fucking wait for me!" One of the movers froze in the entrance.

    "Carry those boxes as well. Please be careful. I put some picture frames in there." Stella tied the garbage bag with a knot. 

    "Yes, ma'am."

    "I'm talking to you." Brandon followed her to the reception room where she handed the garbage bag to a mover with a Lakers cap. 

    "Well, I don't fucking want to talk to you."

    Brandon was dumbfounded when Stella picked up their Maltese, Punch, who's been barking since her parents started yelling at each other. "baby, you're coming with mama, no? Yes, you are. Yes, you are."

    "The fuck? Go on! Leave! I don't care, but you leave Punch with me!" Brandon tried to take Punch from her arms, and again, Stella moved out of his way.

    "No!"

    "I bought Punch!"

    "I picked her! I go to the vet with her. I walk her. I feed her. She's mine!"

    Brandon shut up. 

    "When?"

    "Huh?"

    "When the fuck did you start packing?" Because it didn't seem as if she just decided now - it's been planned very well.

    "You know when," he heard her whispered. She put the dog in her carrier, picked up her handbag and car keys. "Brandon, I loved you. I loved you so damn much, but I, I can't go any longer."

    "Ma'am, we're done," the mover with the beard awkwardly called out from the front porch. 

    "Hn." She hurriedly opened the garage, dropped the dog carrier in the front passenger, and sat in the driver's seat. He heard the ignition and the garage door closing. 

    He helplessly sat down on the coffee-stained black soda and cupped his face with his hands in defeat. He remembered picking this one with her in the nearby Ikea three years ago. She actually wanted the silver-gray one beside it, but they compromised by letting her choose their bed. He wondered if she took that and left this sofa with him.

    He found himself staring blankly at the round table. There's water, Aspirin, and a basin of already warm water. A towel submerged in it. Beside them were a bunch of papers with her signature.