But here we are, my husband and I, working a couch—long and heavy, upended— through the downstairs doorway. He’s on one side; I’m on the other. He’s shoving; I’m pulling. The couch is jammed firmly in the door frame.
A moment shy of a violent case of WTF’s (“back in the day,” as my kids say, we called these “the Goddamnits”), I suggest a pause.
A pause? We’re trying to get this f’*&^ing thing through the doorway!
Yes, a pause.