Randy spent an inordinate amount of time on her sofa. It was pink and green and the wrong type of overstuffed- an unfortunate throwback to the 80’s in color and design, but that didn’t matter because it was comfortable and welcoming and Home, for Randy. She liked her sofa and she had a tiny efficiency apartment, so having nearly everything on hand near to the sofa was easy. It folded out into a bed, but most nights she didn’t bother to open it up- she didn’t need that much room and, when it was a bed, it didn’t cradle her against its arm in the same cozy way.
It is not as if she didn’t work or get any exercise- she was no couch potato. She had a half-decent job as a bank teller and she went to the gym three or four times a week, but she also spent most of the rest of her time on the sofa. And it wasn’t really that she didn’t see people- she had friends that she’d meet for lunch during the day and she dated enough, but Randy still ended up on that sofa during most of her free time because her relationships never lasted that long.
One of her old boyfriends had suggested that he’d be happy to help Randy haul it out to the curb and then he’d love to help her pick out a new one. He wasn’t Randy’s boyfriend for much longer after that. Randy didn’t actually choose the sofa over Brad, Brad just didn’t understand the love of the sofa and Randy couldn’t see herself with a man who couldn’t appreciate something so fine. Later, Brad got married to a woman with a huge leather sectional with all the bells and whistles and cup holders and hidden storage compartments and vibrating massage. Randy should have known he was that type of man- nothing he owned was older than five years or so, maybe less.
So, Randy had her sofa and she was happy enough with it and with her life in general- really.
Until the rusty spring incident . . .