Tonight I put your couch on the curb.
As I pushed the flat hunk of wood, pleather and cushion through my front doors -trying to maneuver it just right to make it through, I had a glimpse of the night you moved in. Your wooden shelf there in my front yard against the brick stairs, along with a bunch of bags of clothes, and those horrible plastic drawers I hated. I remember helping you carry everything and I stopped for a moment because I realized I was terrified – I had never lived with someone I was dating before. I knew in my heart that you were it, that I didn’t want anyone else, you were the one. But somehow this night-time move seemed scary. It seemed rushed, in retrospect. I looked at you when it hit me, and disclosed my trepidation. I looked into your eyes. Ugh. The Bluest green, and gigantic. You always looked gorgeous to me, even when you didn’t.
As I gave the stupid couch another shove, I remembered one of the first times I came over to your house. We had gone out a few times when you blew me off for a week or so, to hang out with that (disgusting excuse of a person) stripper ex of yours. You tried to make it up to me and I gave you the cold shoulder…for a hot second. You won me over and so there I was in your apartment, in what you called your “livingroom / kitchen”. You opened up your couch and we laid there falling asleep to The Craft. One of the first times you were my big spoon. Even in the beginning we never met up to fuck or make out. We often just cuddled and slept next to each other. So very intimate so early. It’s like we just wanted to be near one another.
A few more hard scrapes on the concrete, as I thought about the role this ugly couch played in the first time I met your mom. We were only about 3 months in, and you were sad because your twin had just left on a months long eurotrip. You were mean to me all day that day, for the first time ever, and I didn’t know how to handle it. (It took me so long to understand that relationships shouldn’t consist of one partner beating down the other because something in their life isn’t where they want it to be.) So there we laid, in your bed watching a movie on your laptop, when your mom showed up unannounced, and I scrambled to set us up on the couch in the living kitchen. But it was obvious that we weren’t in there -the couch was full of clothes. Your mom was so annoyed and made you move your shit so she could sit. You introduced us, and I’m sure your mom knew right away that I was some skinny little gay girl you were seeing. She wasn’t rude or friendly, but she was intimidating in that mom way.
Now the couch is on the curb, and it feels good. It feels like you are finally out of my life and I’m ok with it. I’m not thinking about you everyday like I used to.
You left it, just like you left me.
You went and got another “Angie” within a week of leaving. Seriously, a generic-dollar store-irregular version of what I looked like when we first met.
I’m sure you never mentioned to the new people you met that we were building a life together, when you decided to pick up & leave on a “whim.” Or maybe you did, but painted me as the antagonist, to make yourself feel better about hurting me.
I saw your “grown up” studio apartment because, you’ve always relished in displaying your private life for “likes.”
You went and got another couch, a better one.
But there I was still watching TV on the one you left behind. Sleeping on it at times, relaxing and hanging out on it. It’s ugly and beat up. But I believed that I was too broke to afford a new one. “This will do”, I kept saying. Even though it holds all of this fucked up energy from a past with someone who isn’t that person anymore. Or who always was that person and I’m just finally awake.
It’s on the curb and I don’t care about whether or not I can afford a new one. I’m just glad it’s gone.
I’m not “broke” anymore.