The IKEA Assembly and the Missing Divorce Papers

Ben and Lisa had hit a low point: they were assembling a massive, six-drawer IKEA dresser called "The Förtrolighet" (which translates roughly to "The End of Trust"). They had been dating for six months, and this was clearly the ultimate test of their relationship.

They were in the middle of a screaming match over whether the 'Cam Lock C' went into the 'Dowel Slot A' or 'Dowel Slot B.'

"It goes in A! It's clearly labeled!" Ben yelled, throwing a tiny wrench onto the carpet.

"The diagram shows it upside down! You always assume you're right!" Lisa retorted, slamming a piece of particle board onto the floor.

They had been at it for three hours. The dresser was half-built, listing precariously, and looked less like furniture and more like a minimalist deconstructed tomb.

Suddenly, Ben reached into the box to pull out the final backing board. He didn't pull out the board; he pulled out a thick, legal-looking envelope.

The envelope was clearly addressed to Lisa. The stamp on the front read: "DIVORCE PROCEEDINGS: FINAL JUDGMENT."

Ben stared at the envelope. "Lisa? What is this?"

Lisa's face drained of color. "Oh, my god. I... I thought I burned those."

Ben looked at the envelope, then at Lisa. "You are currently assembling complex Swedish furniture with me, your boyfriend, while carrying the final paperwork from your previous marriage inside the box?"

"It was an old box!" Lisa shrieked. "I must have used it to carry papers months ago! And I forgot they were in the bottom!"

Ben dropped the divorce papers. The papers, released from their envelope, fluttered down onto the carpet.

Lisa, trying to salvage the situation, pointed at the instructions. "Never mind that! Look! We missed a step! The D-slots need the A-pins!"

Ben ignored her. He was staring at the legal documents, then at the listing dresser, then back at Lisa.

"We are building a monument to my naive commitment right now, and you've got the receipt for your failed marriage inside the foundation!" Ben exclaimed. "What does this say about our future?!"

Suddenly, the dresser, which was only held together by sheer hope and two misaligned dowels, decided to collapse.

It hit the ground with a soft, final WHOOSH of particle board and splintered wood. The tiny plastic bag of remaining cam locks and screws burst, scattering hardware across the room.

Lisa started laughing uncontrollably, a mix of hysteria and dark realization. "Okay! Fine! Maybe the universe is trying to tell us something about combining our personal lives!"

Ben threw his hands up. "I don't know, Lisa! Maybe the universe is telling us not to spend $400 on compressed wood and also to discuss our prior legal entanglements before the assembly process!"

They ended up ordering pizza, sitting on the floor amidst the wreckage of the Förtrolighet, deciding that their relationship could only proceed if all future furniture was delivered fully assembled, and all legal documentation was filed remotely.