“I don’t think she hates you,” I said. “I never got that impression.”
“I don’t think so. Hate? I don’t think she feels hate for you at all.”
“Really. You never do anything to her. You’re really nice to be around. I think she thinks you are a stool, and you’re mistaking this for hate.”
“Yeah. Like a footstool. An ottoman. Something you lay your clothes on…you know. You take off your coat and want to put it somewhere, so you put it on the stool. Not an ottoman – that’s too big. A stool, okay?”
“I get it.”
“Yeah, whatever she wants to get rid of, she puts it on you. You’re handy. You know now you can kick a stool and prop a door open with it?”
“Well that’s what she does. A stool is useful. You don’t hate it.” I hesitated. “It’s better then being treated like a toilet, okay?”
Where do you lay your coat, when you don’t want to be bothered with it? Is there a person who serves as a stool in your life?