“I’m proud of you,”

he says, pulling away from a hug I hadn’t anticipated.

“What do you mean?” Agitated already, I don’t have the patience to figure out what he means, without asking first. The want to care escapes me.

“You have furniture,” pointedly acknowledging the suede couch we were only moments ago sitting on, he chuckles. 

Furniture. Right. When this began, seven months ago, my apartment consisted of two chairs, a card table, a coffee table, and my bed. With the addition of the couch, a few more chairs, an entertainment center, a dresser, and a television set, I have acquired many things. Stuff. Junk. Clutter. The things in my apartment stress me out. 

He stresses me out.