You never know when love will strike.
And what a perfect descriptive word that is—strike. Verb. “To hit or dash, to inflict, to collide.” It’s sudden and sporadic but overpowering, almost forceful.
I could tell you exactly when it happened, what I was wearing, and how the city smelled (like hesitant spring, if you must know.)
My love story unfolded like this: A friend and I were weaving in and out of the East Village’s community gardens. It was warm enough for a leather jacket, but sitting in the shadows would give you a shiver. As we exited the little rough-and-tumble park, there he sat—my one and only.
I laughed with the couch.
I took pictures with the couch.
I even inquired about bed bugs from the couch’s previous owner. (There were none… finger’s crossed.) But ultimately I had to walk away from him. How would I bring my love to Queens?
Maybe he didn’t have to make that journey… I quickly texted two guys I knew who lived on that block. Wouldn’t they just love to have a couch from the side of the road?
Those poor gents—I do feel a bit bad for what happened next. I didn't really ask to keep the large piece of furniture but... but you should understand I was blinded by love! This couch was the urban form of that lost puppy you begged your parents to keep.
And they must have seen some persistent glimmer in my eye. There’s no other way to explain why two men would lug a golden chaise lounge down the block, and up four flights of stairs to their fully furnished apartment.
It happened all too quickly. But we were bored and the weather was warm, so that’s how the story goes. That’s how a large retro couch made a new (albeit understandably brief) home in a random living room on 6th Street.
I won’t claim to know the fate of my love. As far as I’m aware, he currently sits in his Alphabet City apartment, probably uncared for and utterly degraded. I’m fairly certain he’ll be forced back out on the street any day now, waiting in golden desperation for the next idealistic passerby. (In fact, his tragic ending may have already occurred!)
The moral of this story, my friends? Love can strike at the wrong time, and passions may become fickle as they’re tainted with practicality.
(Also, never answer a text from me when I’m looking at bulky furniture on your street.)
But, oh, isn’t parting such sweet sorrow?