“I’d be another innocent ingenue forced to sell my body on the street, and anyone who’s ever seen a Broadway musical could tell you how that would end.” I paused, then remembered Fern was a biology grad student when she wasn’t a barista and probably hadn’t been listening to show tunes since high school. “I know, I heard what you said.īut then I’d have had to pay to live in that building, and grad school stipends and part-time work at Coffee Connections would not make that happen,” I reminded her. “You should’ve made him move out,” she concluded.

The “Come to Jesus” discussion was Fern’s preferred love language. Through our entire shared shift at Campus Connection on Wednesday, even the part where I ended up sorting stock in the back because I’d been crying off and on-she’d simply raised her voice so I could hear her. “As I explained to you at length.” Oh, she had. Martin doesn’t deserve hand-tufting.” “Martin doesn’t deserve to keep your apartment,” she retorted. “I refuse to let the bastard have my sofa, too. It’s bad enough that I came home early from my Intro to Creative Writing TA hours Tuesday to make soup for my flu-ridden boyfriend, only to find him being ridden by someone who was blond and twinky and decidedly not the flu.” I sniffed.

This sofa is the proverbial line in the sand between what I am willing to forego and what I refuse to give up. This sofa is firm, it’s supportive, and it cradles my ass lovingly, which is more than I can say about any man I’ve ever dated, especially Martin. This sofa is a symbol, okay? This sofa is the perfect combination of form and function.

Pick One by May Archer