New sofa is delivered today. Lord have mercy: it is a white sofa — brilliantly, blindingly, terrifyingly Arctic bone china white, Paradisically pure white, the white of virgin snow, of supernova nuclei. It sits in the apartment like a great ocean liner, spotless and ghostly, a blank page, a wide whitened smile. Its eco-cotton upholstery drum-tight with expectancy, awaiting that first smudge, be it inky fingerprint or red wine Armageddon. The slightest opportunity to be smirched, stained, discolored, defiled: dust, perspiration, dead skin, harsh language. The furniture showroom salesweasels, drawing up the paperwork, look at us like we’re joking. The furniture delivery goons, unwrapping the plastic, look at us like we’re insane. Perhaps we are insane. Friends, family, strangers on the street — no one can believe our folly. You bought a white sofa? What’s wrong with you, they scream. Don’t you ever want to have KIDS?!?! The white sofa: home décor hallmark of evolutionary dead ends.