Furniture stores, those that are built to be a furniturial wonderland, are a whirlwind. It’s a matter of this looks good, but then there’s that one, and a better finish, and shelves and lamps, along with the dresser, don’t forget that. Leather, pleather, mircrofiber. Chairs at every corner.
They get you when you sit or lie down. That’s when it gets to being comfortable, and you get to thinking you can splurge and buy a farm house’s worth of shit for a modest two-bedroom place.
Were I less resolute I would have felt bad when I finally told the salesperson I “simply want a bed frame and a big chair, big as hell. Something good for reading.”
“Oh, but what about a nice sofa? This one here is amazing for watching television, or having people over, and it would look excellent as part of—”
“No, thanks. Just the bed frame and that chair right there.”
A nice number, rich fabric and leather. The old man chair I’ve always wanted.
“But you said your living room was empty?”
“There’s a desk and its chair, the book shelves, and now,” with a pat on the leather, “this chair, and that bed frame on top of it. I’ve got all I need.”
“No bed?”
I harrumphed. “That was the first thing I bought.”
She shied away and glanced toward the chair. “Perhaps you’ll be back later, then. And we’ve always got financing.”
Sales people.
“Perhaps,” I said, and as she went on about finding out when they could deliver my stuff I sat down in the chair. I dug my fingers into the arms and reclined it as far back as I could go.