Leatherette

The sofa I found for us was leatherette.

I had a budget of one thousand dollars to furnish an entire apartment, a seemly huge amount of money until I priced out the items we'd need. A table and four chairs because I planned on entertaining new friends we would certainly be meeting in our new city. A guest bed for family who I hoped would fly to visit and be impressed by our new home. A chest of drawers or two, bedside tables, lamps, coffee table, end table, book shelves, a fake bentwood cane rocker and the leatherette sofa I pretended was real leather.

I sacrificed a wood table and chairs in favor of a metal/formica topped octagon so I could get that sofa. The guest bed ended up being just the hollywood frame that came with the cheap mattress so I could get that sofa. That sofa was the symbol of my adulthood. No one in my family had ever owned a modern style sofa and no one I'd ever known had one that was leather - or at least could pass for leather. This was my prize purchase and that sofa followed me from apartment to apartment, from city to city, from relationship to relationship, till at last - it became the parting gift in yet another break up.

When I bought it, I had dreams of us laying in each other's arms while we watched TV together.  I imagined that's what couples did once the relationship settled into it's day to day rhythm. You never held me. Until the move it was what I accepted as normal. I had never seen my parents sitting and hugging. My vision came from movies and TV where couples madly in love would be drawn by the force of their need for each other to spend not just their nights entwined, but daytime too. An oversize, overstuffed  chair would be an invitation for the man to pull his woman into his lap where they would nuzzle and kiss. She would feel adored, safe, partnered with her soulmate. A sofa, a buttery leather-like six feet of cushion  plus padded arm rests would be like a magic carpet. In a heartbeat they could be laying heart to heart as rain beat against the wood decking outside. A constant in a changing world. Alone together. A couple.

Our old sofa had been handed down in your family for so many years the cushions had lost their fluff. The fabric on the arms and edges of the seats were rough from all manner of spills. It smelled. You would not consider turning it down when it was offered. It was free. When we were dating we'd had sex on that couch, but when it became ours, I don't recall us even sitting on it together. When we left it behind, I felt all our issues would be left behind too. A new city, a new life, a new chance for the magic that I believed had brought us together to take hold. In our new city, in our new apartment we would finally become the romantic couple I'd imagined.

The minute the leatherette sofa was brought up the stairs and into our apartment, you claimed it for yourself, much like your father had claimed his recliner. You saw it as your throne from which you would rule your family (me) much like your father had ruled his. 

I have two strong memories of you and the leatherette sofa, and both happened on the same rainy day. You were laying alone on the sofa watching TV while I worked at my little art desk tucked under the stairs. You told me to get up and make you a sandwich. I was busy. My art project was due the next day. You demanded I get up and make you a sandwich. There had been nights when I watched TV from the floor when you would suddenly throw things at me. At those times I had said something that made you mad, but that day I'd been working quietly. I suggested you get yourself a sandwich. I'd just returned from the grocery - there was fresh bread and peanut butter. 

I remember how fast you moved from the leatherette sofa to my side. Your displeasure was heavy and threatening. I flinched but kept working on my project. You moved to the tiny kitchen and slammed drawers open and closed. It was my fault, you said, I'd hidden the peanut butter and the bread, how were you to know where they were? 

I remember smiling and laughing a bit at that. The kitchen was so tiny we could not be in it at the same time. There was one cupboard that held the food. I always put the peanut butter and bread in the same place. Open one door and there they were at the front. They could not have been easier to find.

I remember how fast you moved from the kitchen drawer that held our knives to my side. The knife glittered a bit in the florescent light. There seemed to be no light in your eyes, "I SAID make me a sandwich." And I did. I was crying as I did. I knew in that moment we were never going change. You were never going to change. You took your sandwich to the leatherette sofa and chewed with your eyes glued to the TV. You took no notice of me standing, drained and sobbing. The knife was on the counter. As I sobbed I dreamed of using it on my wrists. I dreamed of pouring out the pain I felt by draining it from my body. Then you would see. Then you would realize how much I needed to be held, to feel safe, to be be partnered, to be adored. Your face would soften and I would not believe how fast you would move from the sofa to my side to hold me up as I slumped to the floor, dying. Tears would well up in your eyes and I would feel your tears fall on my face as you looked deep into my eyes as you told me you were so sorry. 

Like a sleepwalker I shuffled from the kitchen across the cheap brown shag carpet. I had managed to slow my tears to a series of rough gasps.  I stood over you, within reach, waiting for you to turn your empty face to me, waiting for your cold blue eyes to meet mine. 

And when at last you acknowledged me, I begged to be held.