It's his, now, but it used to be ours.
It's black, and leather, and expensive, and that's about all there is to say about it. I'd like to say I remember when we bought it, maybe holding hands as we walked together into some trendy midtown Manhattan shop, but we were both too busy for that then. I think it was Cam who placed the actual order, or maybe Michele, and neither of us was home when it arrived.
It's this one's predecessor I really remember, anyway, a shabby dark brown monstrosity from the seventies, stolen from a Durham street corner and carted three blocks to our apartment. We'd just gotten it up the stairs when he tripped and crushed me against the railing with it. His face went pale when he realized what had almost happened, but I just laughed and collapsed onto it, breathless and sweating, and five minutes later we were christening it ours.
That's the one I wish I'd managed to keep. This one just stands here on its four perfect legs in his Washington apartment, all spotless and trendy and nothing like me and Sam at all. It was supposed to represent the life we thought we'd be living together, but if I'd known that life would consist of nothing but wistful long-distance phone calls and his pain as a consolation prize, I'd have made more of an effort to save the old one.
At least it would have made a more comfortable bed.