Distressed Leather

I spotted the 9 foot leather couch in a bay window on Beacon Street. The owners gladly sold it to me when I pulled out a wad of cash.

I situated the dark leather sofa at the center of my loft with the rest of the furniture taking on a supporting role.

Eating, reading, napping and working on my lap top all took place on the sofa. The loft would disappear as I’d sink into softness like a breeze touching the back of my hand.

Killarney too loved the sofa and would ly on it all stretched out in one of her  leather outfits, asking if I thought she looked cool. I’d smile, letting her know she was the top of the heap.

We would take turns pinning the other  to the sofa playing out fantasies so absurd we’d roll off the leather onto the floor in a heap of sweaty laughter.

For hours we’d snuggle together on the sofa reading aloud from novels and news papers or sharing our writings and thoughts.

Sometimes I’d wake to find Killarney not in our bed but asleep on the couch, clutching a book of stories I’d given her. She be curled up on the sofa looking so frail and transparent.

Yesterday I found Killarney not in our bed or on the sofa. On the center cushion was the book of stories and a one word note saying simply “goodbye.”

I may sell the sofa but just for today, I’m going to snuggle into its softness clutching the book of stories and the one word note.