She’d have to leave the rug behind if she left, or sell it. She could not afford keeping it, or more correctly, a space large enough to hold it, at least not along with a couch and new bed, all three. Perhaps she could forgo a new bed, she thought, sleep on her couch. That would take up less room.

Sitting in the calm of the living room, taking in the whole of it, she pictured her future bedless life: Her, on the couch in some small lightless room. She imagined how her body would curl up to fit. The large rug lying beneath her, beneath the couch; like her own body, folded unnaturally to fit the small space.

A hypoallergenic cat would not take up much room, or cause her to sneeze. Perhaps she would have one there for company.

It was the thought of herself folded up to fit small spaces that upset her. That thought inspired her to get up from the couch and travel into the kitchen for a glass of Merlot. But she stopped short in the hall. Surely it wasn’t right to drink wine to erase things. Even things like futures, which did not actually exist.

On the other hand, she thought, it was quite possible that imagined futures were more disturbing than anything actual; more deserving of erasure.