The Loveseat | NOREIA RAIN

The Loveseat

fiction by NOREIA RAIN

West Elm blue velvet loveseat - perfect condition! - $250 (lower pac hts)

Selling a lovely, plush blue velvet loveseat in perfect condition, originally from West Elm for $600. This loveseat has worked great for us but moving to NYC and won't have the room for it unfortunately! (Throw pillow not included.) There's an elevator in our building which makes for easy pick-up :D Thanks!

Such a lovely, plush blue velvet loveseat. In perfect condition. Originally from West Elm. For $600. The West Elm in Emeryville, where I’d never been, where I pulled at a loose thread on the sleeve of my hoodie as I followed you through the reflective glass front doors. You strode in, your short beard neat, your freshly washed hair, head held high, all calm smile, like you deserved to be there, of course you did, these employees were standing around holding their breath until you glided into their lives and they could help you find the exact loveseat you were looking for, the exact shade of blue, the softness of it like loving fingers tracing your skin. My skin. Your fingers. Our loveseat. I was leaving my room in the beer-stained, cigarette-burned, fast-angry-guitar-saturated Barrel House in Oakland to step into your Pacific Heights life, and some younger, pierced, Mohawked kid would fill the space I had occupied for the past two years, sleeping under my Sharpie sketches of moons and cats and skateboards on the off-white walls.

West Elm Blue Velvet Loveseat, Perfect Condition.

Where I’d lie curled up in my oversized nightgown in the chilly November mornings before work under your soft alpaca hair blanket, and you’d bring me a steaming clay mug of coffee and a plate of pancakes, whole wheat, with real maple syrup, the expensive kind, no high fructose corn syrup. And you’d brush my tangled hair from my forehead and place your lips there, right where my third eye was supposed to be, so soft like the bright golden maple leaves

I gathered outside and framed and hung up in your apartment. Our apartment. Then you’d lift my feet and sit beside me on the loveseat and place my legs over yours, and I should have seen it, I don’t understand how I couldn’t have seen it, couldn’t have felt it seeping from your fingers when you touched me. Why didn’t my skin prickle at your touch, why were there no alarm bells, sirens blaring, flashing red lights indicating that what I thought was real wasn’t?

Maybe you kissed my third eye into blindness.

This loveseat has worked great for us but moving to NYC and won't have the room for it unfortunately!

Unfortunately. Unfortunately it has worked great for us. It was great and sturdy despite its size, like a tree not fully grown but strong enough to cradle you in its branches. It was great and soft and blue and firm, my back fitting into it, indenting it just slightly as you held yourself over me, your thin arms flexing, the intensity in your eyes as you pushed into me, some kind of far-off sadness, your eyes as deep, rich blue as the loveseat, bluer. I fell upwards into that blue and I never wanted to see anything else again.

Unfortunately it worked great for you. And her. In our apartment. Your apartment. Her small ass indenting the cushions just slightly. Her legs stretched over your shoulders. Did your eyes look just as blue when you looked at her? Did she tumble upwards into that depth? Or were her eyes clenched tight the whole time as she thrust upwards, oblivious to your blue, while you looked over her shoulder to somewhere sad and far away?

Moving to NYC. You are.

You said I could keep the apartment. You’d talk to the landlord, she loved you, she’d put me on the lease. (Did she love you on the loveseat too?) You are moving to NYC, a place I’ve never been, a hazy collage of television memories of skyscrapers and hot dogs and art galleries and a long stretch of park where lovers hold hands and steaming cups of coffee on chilly November mornings, paper cups, not clay.

You bustle around the apartment filling boxes with our things, your things. Things you had before I whiskey-stumbled out of the pub and smack into your chest that first night last August when the heat sat thickly on our skin and later when you brought me home, your lips tasted of salt and lemon. I sit on the blue cushion and run my fingers over the velvet. I clutch your throw pillow to my chest and stare at the shadows from the maple outside the window dancing across the wall until I realize you have stopped walking and are looking at me and I search your eyes for that far-off sadness but a thickness has come over them, they are not as blue, they are staring from under lowered brows (I used to kiss) and I realize you are annoyed because you’ve packed everything but your throw pillow and so I surrender it and you lift up a box and walk out the door to the elevator and I fall on my side on the loveseat and stare and stare at the maple tree shadows.

You are gone quickly. Your friend is outside with his truck, and there is an elevator in our building, which makes for easy pickup. You have taken your clay coffee mug and your alpaca hair blanket and the plates you piled pancakes onto, and your framed art and your collection of vinyl and three crates of books. You have left the framed maple leaves on the walls. You have left me the loveseat. Thanks.