You're ready to start again.
New apartment, new furniture. New you.

But

there's something in your past,
holding you back.
It's lurking, its hulking presence squeezing the hope out of you.

The sofa.

The one you inherited from your previous roommate/parent's basement/grandmother's rec room/frat house. There's a scratch or two or a dozen on the cover.
Maybe a stain on the seat.
Oh, there's no perceptible smell there, not really.
Just enough duct tape or cat hair or loose threads or out-of-fashion colors that the Salvation Army won't take it.

The little voices start first as a whisper.

    Leave it on the sidewalk.
It's still perfectly good. Someone will want it. I could place an ad. Or call my cousin's friend with a truck...
    Leave it on the sidewalk.
I do have to move by the end of the week, and I don't really have time to put up a flyer. Maybe there's someone in the neighborhood that needs it.
    Leave it on the sidewalk!

And you do.

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