Mulled Vine

Dear John,

I don’t love you anymore. In fact, I don’t think I ever loved you – what we had was sexual, not love, an incoherent moment of madness. I remember first seeing you in the furniture store, striding down the aisle with the cutest pair of buns I ever saw. I thought to myself, Those belong in my tender lap. Fate was kind to us, and we met, and you brought me home. At first you treated me well, with tenderness and decency, all that a lady deserves and wants, but then familiarity bred contempt and you started wearing nothing but your filthy underpants and spilling beer and popcorn all over my immaculate suede.

A sofa has some self respect, so I am saying good-bye, and as I write am being carted off by a very hunky removal guy called Tom who has promised to take good care of me.

Enjoy sitting on the carpet, although I’ve heard he doesn’t like your stinking ass any more either.

Rosalinda