The other day at Ikea, P was laughing at a creased, pathetic blue sofa with shiny material and a front pocket for remotes. The frumpy little thing was desperately trying to retain some dignity among the rest of its aloof, perfectly crafted Scandinavian companions. I thought P was making fun of me, because I have that very couch in my living room, in that very color. He in turn thought I was trying to embarrass him, not fully believing I had this thing in my possession, much less in plain view. Little did he know the couch in question does in fact exist, and is currently the hero of its own little retribution tale.

I found it at my favorite store a few years ago. It was blue, allowed me to increase the sitting space in my then living room, and perfectly fit the narrow space I disposed of. Even better, it folded out into a bed. I bought it to the horror and disgust of my then boyfriend, who had unquestionably better taste than me. Because of its fire retardant, shiny space-age material, my friends dubbed it the Space Couch, an appelation that was always pronouned in an ironic, ponderous tone, followed by a fading echo “Cooouch Cooouch Cooouch…”. Hardly a week passed when my then boyfriend didn’t ridicule the Space Couch, deriding the fact that it had never even served as a bed for any guests. Although he stated that if we ever moved in together, the Space Couch would not be making the trip, we did, and of course, it did too. And for the past year we’ve been taking turns being the one who sits on the poor thing and gets the sore butt.

Well, every couch gets its day, and the day of the Space Couch is finally upon it. I’ve just bought a condo and am planning on using it in the office/guest room of my new place. I’ll be able to wheel it out whenever I have guests over and increase the sitting space in the living room, and use it as a second bed whenever needed. This time, I even have a guest planned. The Space Couch will finally serve the purpose it was meant to, without the pressure of being the supposedly attractive, comfortable, primary living room couch.

But the kicker is, in the now ex’s new apartment, his room is too small for a full double bed, and he therefore wants to take the Space Couch for a bed.

It is the most surreal of ironies that he should be negociating with me so intensely, offering me all manner of waaay better furniture and various deals to get the miserable little Space Couch off me. What’s even funnier is that I really want to keep it. Whenever we begin another round of negociations, I swear I can see it smile smugly.

Leave it to a stout-hearted little Space Couch to play a cosmic joke on its persecutors.