After ten Sunday evening and we’re still at the neighbor’s house sipping wine. We know better of course. We all have to get up early Monday morning for work, but the night is warm, the mood is fine, the wine is mellow, and the candle-lit room provides the perfect ambiance for our friendship.
“I really like your futon much better than ours,” T says.
“Really!? I think yours is so much nicer.”
“Want to trade?” T asks.
I’m thrilled. I really do like theirs better and it would fit our room perfectly. “Sure! Let’s go get ours and bring it here.”
Within minutes we have our husbands hefting the futon down a flight of stairs, out the front door, down the front steps, across the lawns and up to their third floor loft.
The mood is no longer quite so fine, at least not for the husbands who sweat and struggle with the unwieldy piece of furniture. T and I hear a few curse words, but the men are kind enough to muffle their voices. Good thing as all is dark so we assume most of the neighbors to be tucked in for the night. The futon mattress and matching coffee table make the same trip.
We place the furniture in the loft. T and I clink our wine glasses in a toast and ooh and ah over how good it looks. Our mood is mighty fine. The men are still muttering.
Now it’s time to bring down their futon and make the reverse trip. T and I offer helpful advice and guidance as the men maneuver the heavy futon in the dark. Not sure why we haven’t turned on any lights, but we’re managing, so no sense wasting electricity.
Now, remember that we’re doing this in the dark. Saving electricity. All goes well until we reach our front door and a set of headlights illuminate the street. The vehicle is moving very, very, very slowly. We turn. A police car!