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I can't get rid of this damn sofa

I just can't get rid of that damn sofa, the one you left behind when you left me.

It was a nice sofa, probably the best one I've ever had - how the hell did your parents keep it stain-free? - it was white for crying out loud.

For a while I'd sit on the couch in it's plush cushions and read the paper, as if it were some long, warm, far-reaching arm of care from you even though we both know that you're always cold.

Later, I'd throw big parties and have a bunch of people sit on the sofa, completely unaware of our voyage together. Some would comment that it was a nice sofa.

I eventually moved thousands of miles away and gave that white whale to a friend who put all this faux sheepskin over it and threw wine soirees and wild grape-and-cheese-eating orgies on it. I think this is where it got the red stains.

She would move, too - this friend, and I would be reunited with that damn thing while visiting my old home, in the apartment of two guys who have it in the spare room even though it's still a better couch than that ugly olive-colored slouch in the livingroom.

I think this couch is going to be around for a long time. It will probably move again, like all of those who have owned it before. It may spawn pillows and write novelettes about it's world travels. It will grow old slowly, stain by stain, fluffing by fluffing. It may end up in an alley and become a home for rodents. Scrap wood may be broken off of it and find it's way into garages of men with power tools and become little trinkets or widdled elves, the rest may be buried or incinerated to produce electricity which may find it's way to the television of a young couple watching it, sitting on their sofa.

Posted by Aaron R. Deutsch on January 23, 2002 04:10 PM

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