It had been purchased by her then-girlfriend's effort to keep two people in one spot.
Didn't work and her incoming new wife determined to clear their new home of old memories sawed it in half so it could fit in the tiny elevator of their 5th Street apartment and get it the hell out of their new life together. The new couple walked both pieces up to my apartment eight blocks away.
Having never had a real couch before, I was thrilled to receive it and watched in awe as the new wife power tooled the two pieces into their former glory.
In the ensuing decade and then some, sex and love and happily-ever-after were attempted on its cushions, along with lifetimes of laughing in love and weeping in heartbreak. On it art was marveled at, stories were written and when sick, it was the best place to curl up and become a little girl again. In recent life and loss, it was a refuge to hide in often with take-out and TV to numb and soothe the noise inside from too much of too much.
Then the cat, taking full occupancy of his home, also took full occupancy of the couch. A place to hide under when little, frightened and trying to figure out who the mommy-can-opener was, and once that was established a place to hide his favorite toys, amongst them my favorite pen, my reading glasses, hair bands needed for the gym and other important essential items of my life. Now bigger and no longer able to fit beneath the broken frame, this beat-up couch has become the cat's warm corner of comfort when wanting to keep me company while catching up on his beauty sleep.
Soon, to clear out decades of history no longer welcomed in my home, the couch will be dismantled and taken out in the tiny elevator of this building. A new couch, perhaps more functional, a bit smaller, not so broken will fill new space. And with that, new memory and new history me and the cat choose.
