Torn Apart

The table screamed in pain. The curtain shook itself out of its torpor and called out to the table.

“Are you okay, my darling?” it asked beseechingly.

“Buggrem no,” the melancholy table replied. “This shitfuck lardarse just poked a knife into me.”

The curtain shivered. Their separation had been hard on its heart, but it reminded itself that it was no longer the cloth that had once swathed the glorious table. Its new patchwork life in the sun was arduous, but the memories were still there.

It tried to soothe its beloved. “I know it must be difficult to bear with it, but just think, one day, I shall lie in a garbage heap, torn up and moth-bitten, and you shall lie with me. In sticks and planks shall we be together.”

“No arsing way,” the table replied cantankerously. “I’ll be shredded way before you are, the way this fat fuck carries on. He’ll die with his face in his plate, and I’ll rot with him.”

“You mustn’t say that, my love. We will find a way. If we have to suffer, we shall do it together.”

The curtain fluttered in the breeze and billowed, almost touching the table. The table tried to reach out, but couldn’t. The curtain missed by an inch. The table was silent.