He was a dusty old slipper, the kind of slipper a dog would favour for its developed bouquet and for all the right fraying around the toe and heel. But with a good sole, definitely, oh yes, the kind that could handle the linoleum, but also catch all the delight of a happy dog's drool. Those are important qualities in a slipper.
And his wife, she was an embroidered, beige cushion, filled with rice for weight because down was too expensive for her pallid appearance. Her edges were covered with faded, ruby frills, some threads loose. On the front she had redwine stains, blurred from a night of intense scrubbing with every possible remedy, salt, mineral water - white wine, shampoo. But the cushion was not to be saved, her presentation made even sadder by the fact that the stain wouldn't go away.
They rarely met on weekdays. She spent her time lodged between two moss-green pillows (to hide her decay) in the plastic covered sofa that creaked when sat on.
While the slipper travelled a lot. On a good, floor-cold day. he could be pulled out from under the bed (who put my slippers under the bed?), travel all the way to the bathroom, visit the kitchen, go out for the newspaper, watch the weather on the tellybox, visit the bathroom again and be kicked off in the hallway. On particularly difficult days the dog would feel like having something to do, find the slipper and dig him down in the yard. However dreadful - this was not exactly the worst bit about the dog predicament. It was the washing machine that wore him thin.
They met in the sofa, naturally. The lady of the house was in Paris, and the owner of the slippers enjoyed a full weekend alone on the plastic covers - feet up, resting them right on top of her, the cushion. They both blushed. He was funny, she was even funnier, they fit like a jigsaw puzzle.
They rushed it. that's what everyone said. The house rules would never allow their relationship to last, slippers on the sofa. There was no way. But they were all proved wrong, all the way to the end, because they loved each other so much they didn't care if the house heard their whispers. Or that the sofa or the rug constantly witnessed their feverish kisses. Their life was a passionate one, their hearts made even more tender by all the longing.
They were destined for each other. And there was nothing anyone could say to prevent it.One day, the lady of the house scooped them both up in a cardboard box together, she turned around even, when the ashtray of the coffetable made an indiscreet gasp. She took them away, and nobody in the house ever saw them again. But that is not the morale of the story, because - what truly mattered was that they could be together.