The Golden Sofa   The arrangement is ridiculous: we’re sharing a dog. (The lawyers hashed it out.) My sister’s husband, an attorney here in Wyoming, says that, without a doubt, there’s always a golden sofa. He pauses, then explains: a lightning rod, a bone of contention, a rationale for laws and lawyers — and now he’s on a roll. One time, the legal dissolution of love was proceeding amicably enough — “amicably” — which is to say, above the customary strife attending stuff — the toys and the boats, the money, the kids — ours distilled to mine and yours (just as naturally as oxygen, electrolyzed, rids itself of hydrogen and — voilą — water is no more). Their house was never haunted, merely consigned. And the cars, the keys, the cats — no problemo. But then she wanted the golden sofa. And so did he.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont November 2013