Crisp, early November, and Roderick and Daisy were moving. Roderick did not want to leave his townhouse. “It’s curtains for me. I’m ruined!” Roderick declared. “The bank owns my toys! Can you believe?” All on account of some papers he signed, as he says, “When I was out of my mind!”
Daisy wasn’t overjoyed about the enforced move, especially since she saw it as a backslide to the boonies. But Roderick was her meal-ticket, and where he went she was quick to follow. Besides, Daisy had learned, after a decade as a beautiful plaything, that when rich people claimed they were broke it meant something else, entirely.
The new house, a rental down valley, was bare. Not so much as a knife and fork. Which was Ok since neither Roderick nor Daisy were big on cooking. Unless you count holding a flame beneath a spoonful of junk. Still, even the addled need somewhere to loll. The night before the move they went online and ordered furniture. Roderick found a site with improbably low prices. “Let’s get everything,” Roderick suggested, and they were up all night, shopping and arguing.
Any tension between them evaporated when, with pride, Roderick watched his “baby”, a monster of a motorcycle, delivered to the new house. One of the few items the bank had overlooked. Largely because he’d forgotten he owned it. Men untied the purple machine from a flatbed, and rolled it down a ramp.
“My baby!” Roderick said, arms outstretched. He h

oisted his bulky frame astride the motorcycle. He pressed his soft thighs against the fairings. It felt wonderful. He wanted to feel the wind against his sallow cheeks.
”Back in the saddle!” Roderick punched one hand in the air and whooped, and then he began coughing, hacking, so much he had to grip the handlebars and jam his feet flat on the ground to keep from tipping.
“Lordy!” Daisy said, smacking a hand over her mouth.
“Shhhh!” Roderick whispered. He pushed the key into the keyhole and twisted.
And that was the last anyone could say precisely what happened. There was an explosion; puffs of smoke, licks of fire. The motorcycle thrust forward a few feet, as if possessed, and then wobbled eerily, before tumbling, bits flew off noisily as it met with the gravel of the driveway.
“Owwww!” Roderick was down and curled round like a shrimp; he was hugging his knees, and keening.
The following day, on a stack of pillows and blankets, Roderick was stationed by the living room window. He heard the sounds of a big truck.
“Darling!” Roderick yelled. “Furniture arriving!”
Daisy ran down the stairs, two at a time. Excitedly she skipped to the front door, opened it wide. The truck parked, the driver went around to the back and raised a rattling gate. After some rummaging he retrieved a small brown parcel. Right away Daisy knew something was wrong. It was a crushing disappointment to discover they had ordered dollhouse furniture.