Put the Hammer Down

The boards growl as you step towards me hammer in hand. Your breath smells like the back of the cupboard and sweat transforms your shirt from one to two-toned pink. I do not move from my afternoon patch of sun but my hackles flare as your bulk covers the space between us.
It started when you brought the new guys home. They’re fancier than me, better groomed, nicer clothes. Curiously flat though. A bit two dimensional. Quiet. You’ve taken them from room to room, shown them the view from every angle, finally settled them here. The search for the hammer began then. You muttered about 'hanging' and 'nails' while you rummaged in all the usual places.
I know I’ve been out a lot lately–the neighbours have offered me a kind word and a drink almost every night. I know I’m not often here in the mornings anymore and maybe you miss reaching your hand across the pillow, cupping my head, feeling me lean into your touch. I know we need to reconnect. I’m sorry. Please don’t replace me. I’ll try and be the old me. Perfect.