"What do you think? This set or this?" I blink. Two different sets of spoons, forks and knives.
My palms sweat, my heart rate soars, a tightness in my stomach takes hold.
I imagine the best escape route from this labyrinth of picture frames, bathroom towels, complicated furniture and fragile promises.
Oh Ikea, I've been here before. I've bought into this idea you're selling. First, a husband with a dining room set, a Poang chair, and a Billy bookcase. Then, the live-in boyfriend with a couch, fluffy pillows, stemless wineglasses and chopsticks. They're both exes now. Both ended at impasses where the relationships hit walls, inside of them and inside of me, that I knew not how to take down.
Oh Ikea, I don't know if I can do this again. I already tried the daydreams of Saturday nights with movies, Chinese food and wine. Of my writing nook tucked into the second bedroom which served as a guest room with the futon. The place where my great American novel would be situated on the bookshelf alongside my collection of the books that shaped me.
Only, I learned that happily ever after sometimes ends not so happily.
"Maybe we could invite some of your writer friends over for dinner. You can talk about stories and craft and feel inspired."
I look from him to the silverware and back to him. I open my mouth but cannot find the words. My weight shifts from the right side to the left.
Oh Ikea, I want to believe in this vision you're selling to me, to us, to all of the couples wandering your aisles. I want to be less fearful. I want to feel free to dream romantic dreams again. I want to believe I learned from my past relationships and this one has the chance to work. What's the alternative? To be bitter and alone.
Oh, Ikea. You win this time. I close my eyes. Deep inhale. Exhale. 7-6-5-4. I open them again.
"I think the first one is better. The knives look sturdier. And I think inviting women from the writing group along with their husbands over for dinner sounds great. Thanks. That will mean a lot to me."
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