The 2nd Hand Couch: A Love Story

A humorous tale about solitude, obsession and the most comfortable couch I have ever owned.

It took me a few years, but I finally put together enough money for a deposit on a tiny house in Stanmore. It was certainly rundown, but I didn't feel the need to renovate right away. The peeling paint and cracked plaster reminded me of an old villa I had stayed at in Positano on the Bay of Naples. Some vines growing up the walls and a few old stone pots in the courtyard almost completed the picture.

The next step was getting some furniture. I combed and sorted my way through innumerable second-hand shops finding a lamp base here and a few cushions there. It was a slow process and one that I enjoyed immensely.

One afternoon I was lucky enough to chance upon a rather large and comfortable old couch. By large I mean that it could seat six people without enforced body contact. The couch must have been quite vintage and was covered in a dirty coloured velour fabric. It cost me the gigantic sum of $250. Every night I would come home from work, open a beer, take off my shoes, switch on the TV, and recline lizard like on my new couch in my new house.

I don't know whether you believe in karma. In those days I didn't, but somehow no matter what tidal wave like problems threatened to drown me during the day - no matter what a lovelorn wasteland my life had become - no matter what credit card catastrophe threatened... as soon as I had performed this nightly ritual, I relaxed. But it was more than simple relaxation though. I felt like the couch was a flying carpet comfortably transforming my fatigue body away from all my earthly strung-out endeavours. I would lie there for hours feeling totally at peace. If I closed my eyes which I often did, I would no longer hear the inanities of some puerile television programme. The sound of the TV melted away and my body would succumb to what felt like hundreds of soft soothing fingers gently massaging me. In retrospect the only way to describe exactly how I felt was when I had first really fallen in love. It's hard to describe the feeling of love - a bit like trying to describe the taste of water. My heartbeat slowed down and my senses were raised onto an extraordinarily happy plane.  

One evening I was lying in my customary position watching TV when my eyes involuntarily fell shut and an incredible sensuous feeling overtook my entire body. It's all a bit hazy, yet I know how I felt. It was like softly slowly making love. Not a raunch at all, just the gentle sweetness. “Jesus Christ”, I said aloud to myself, “I'm ecstatically happy.”

The next morning, I felt the usual strains of home to work commuting. The bus was crowded with cranky looking people. I was fine though. Strange. I had never been this fine before in my whole life before except during the first euphoric months of new love which I hadn’t experienced for some time.

Every night I would stop at Mr Bonaventura’s shop to buy whatever it was I needed and then hurry home to my little house and my beautiful piece of furniture. I wasn't going out any more like I used to, hanging around some jazz club or bar with a friend looking at women. My social hunger seemed to have subsided totally. Now everything was drifting off to another world of unknown sensuality and I felt completely satisfied. “It's a completeness that comes from having your own home for the first time in your life.” I told my image in the shaving mirror one morning. “There's nothing weird about liking your own company. Maybe I'm becoming ascetic. Yes that's!” I shouted at the mirror. “I'm having a fucking spiritual experience.”

A couple of weeks later I ran into a good friend of mine, Barney, in a city sandwich bar. “Hey … how are you?” he asked grinning. “Oh, I'm fine.” I answered. “So where have you been hiding?” I felt a bit embarrassed. “I haven't seen you at the pub for a while. I thought you might have gone away.” I felt Barney’s eyes boring into me. “I've bought a house.” “Oh right, renovating.” He smiled. “Yeah, I'm renovating.” I lied to my friend. What's more, I was completely conscious of the fact. We took our sandwiches, shook hands, and made a point of getting together for a drink at the end of the week. As I walked up the busy street weaving my way through lunchtime crowds, I felt an all-encompassing guilt. I had just lied to quite a good friend of mine. Why? I had nothing to hide from him. The truth was that I just didn't feel like sitting around in bars anymore looking for the love of my life. I was happy at home with my couch. “I'm just enjoying my own company that's all.” I said aloud in a crowded lift. “I think I'm going crazy.” I said to no one in particular while standing at the urinal on the 7th floor of the building I work in. I heard a rustle of papers coming from one of the toilet cubicles.   I washed my hands and went back to my office and tried to concentrate.

For the next couple of nights, I steered clear of the couch, and while I sat sulkily eating my dinner at my table, I was certain she was watching me, beckoning me. I nearly gave in one night but instead of losing control and leaping headlong I quickly dragged myself upstairs to bed. I couldn't sleep. All the old nagging worries had returned plus a new one … I had fallen in love with a piece of furniture. That night I tossed and turned. I felt like Ulysses strapped to the mast evading the siren’s song. I knew that it would be dead easy to go downstairs. To lay upon her. To be transported back to her soft soothing sweetness. I lay there and must have drifted off. I woke at dawns first light. I threw myself in the shower and left the house early. It was Saturday. I closed the door on the object of my greatest desire. I went to a café nearby and had a coffee and a croissant. I wasn’t at all hungry. I felt dead inside. Empty and tired like I’d lost a lover or a partner.

I spent the rest of the day at a furniture store. I sat on every couch I could find. Leather modulars. Swedish retro green three-piece ensemble. “Fuck, this madness can't go on.” I said to myself in the mirror next morning after a heavy night alone upstairs humming that Elvis song ‘The Edge of Reality’.

The next day I sold the couch.