Page 63 of Iron

“You’re a golfer, not an engineer.”

“You don’t need an engineering degree to know a nine-by-nine-foot mattress doesn’t fit in a one-bedroom apartment in RiNo.”

The salesman wisely says nothing, just gestures us toward the back like a man who has learned not to get in the middle of couples arguing about square footage.

We test six of them. I make Gavin lie down on each one, my arms crossed, judging like I actually know what I’m looking for.

“That one’s too soft. You’ll wake up angry.”

“I am already angry. I’m shopping for a mattress on a Wednesday.”

“That’s not the mattress’s fault.”

On the fifth one, a regular king, he lies down and stretches his arms out fully to both sides, like he’s trying to make a point, and his fingertips still don’t quite reach either edge.

“See. Fit fine.”

“Fit fine isn’t the goal. Fits great is the goal.” I climb up next to him anyway, stretch out with my hands behind my head like I’m testing it too, even though we both know I don’t need to. My shoulder ends up against his, which defeats my argument a little, but I’m not about to point that out. “Okay, fine. Not the Alaskan.”

“Thank you.”

“But the Cal King. That one.” I nod toward it like it’s already decided. “More length than a regular king. You need the length, with your legs.”

“I need the length like I need a boat, TJ. I need the width more. And you liked my legs last night.”

“A boat’s an excellent investment too, actually,” I reply, feeling myself blush.

“TJ. We are not discussing boats.”

“I’m just saying, if we’re already talking about buying furniture that requires its own zip code…”

“It’s a bed, not a zip code.”

“It’s a big bed, Gavin.”

“This is what I wanted from the start.”

“I’m allowed to have opinions about sizing.”

He turns his head, finally, something soft under the argument now. “You have opinions about sizing because you like winning arguments, not because you actually care if it’s a King or a Cal King.”

I don’t answer that right away because he’s not wrong, not entirely, but it’s not the whole truth either. The whole truth is that a bigger bed in my one-bedroom apartment is a statement, not just a purchase. That I’m picking out something too big for just me alone, on purpose.

“You sure this isn’t overkill?” he asks, and I know he doesn’t mean the mattress size, not really.

“I’m sure.” I look at the ceiling, but I can feel myself smiling, small and a little embarrassed, because he caught the meaning beneath it. Of course he did. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not, TJ.”

“You’re making it weird right now.”

“I love you. And the King is big enough.”

The salesman picks exactly the wrong moment to reappear, asking about delivery windows, and I sit up fast enough that I know I needed the interruption. We argue the whole walk to the sales desk about whether Friday or Monday works better, whether I should move my follow-up doctor appointment around it, ordinary logistics that feel bigger than they are, because underneath all of it is the plain fact that we’re furnishing a life together and neither one of us has said so directly yet.

“Friday,” I decide, signing the slip for the King. “You’ll be here Friday, right?”

“I will be here Friday.”