The Name Says It All

Maybe it was the fact that my husband and I are hosting Thanksgiving dinner and need more seating—or maybe we just needed some retail therapy—but a couple of weeks ago we bought a new couch for our family room. We got a big, comfy leather sectional that has a recliner on each end—my husband’s primary requirement.
This couch replaces a 20-year-old one my husband bought in college. It’s a couch so worn out I’m too embarrassed to show you a photo of it.
I didn’t realize my husband and I were the only family members excited about the new couch until after the movers delivered it. “Come try out the new couch!” I said to James.
“No,” he said. Instead he went into the garage, where we were keeping the old couch until the person whom responded to our Freecycle ad for it could pick it up. “Aren’t we going to keep Couchy?” he asked, resting his head against the back of the old couch.
Couchy? Who is Couchy? Oh, you mean that decrepid thing? “No, someone else is going to take it,” I said. “Now come in the house and try out our new couch!”
“I don’t want to sit on Mr. Couch,” James replied, sulking.
Until that point, I didn’t realize that James was losing a friend. Couchy didn’t mind if he and Ethan jumped up and down on its cushions. It also didn’t care if they got Goldfish crumbs all over it, or spilled juice on it. They could take Couchy’s cushions off and build forts with them any time.
Mr. Couch, on the other hand, won’t put up with any of that nonsense.