A Short Story – Feb. 7, 2010 – “The Couch”
A short story
by Chris Hibbard
My couch still smells like her. She was only here for that one afternoon nearly three days ago, and that scent still lingers. Every time I sit down on that end of the couch, the smell of tangerines and creamsicles envelops me, better than any plug-in air freshener.
I’m still trying to figure out whether I like it or not. It’s like she marked her territory somehow, and now my male-dominance is threatened. Granted, this whole condominium could do with the scent of a woman, especially one that smells like this. But now, every living room activity conjures up memories of her. Little memories involving the way her ears stick out through her long brown hair; the way her workout clothes draped her body, clinging to every delicious curve. Memories of the way my hairs stood up on my arms when she moved beside me; the way she laughed aloud at the funniest parts of the film and of course, the way that she smelled.
The smell is like being in a tropical rainforest, complete with low-hanging fruit and a cotton-candy factory in the centre, pumping out tonnes of sweet-smelling exhaust. It’s as though an elf recently strolled through the television sitting area, sprinkling magic dust that tickles
the nose but never causes a sneeze. It is a dozen tantalizing aromas, all mixed into one perfume, and it’s now ingrained into the third cushion on the left, and the armrest as well. I know, because that’s where my head
was lying last night when I fell asleep watching Tarantino Nazis, and that’s the first thing I smelled when I woke up four hours later, a kink in my neck and a long-legged brunette on my mind.
So what does one do with a couch like this. Does one sit on it for hours, rolling around like a French bulldog who is stuck on his back? Does one clean it with a vacuum, sucking the smell away? Perhaps I need to blow smoke on it and spill ginger ale and cookie crumbs onto it, regaining the bachelor lifestyle smell that the couch had before. Yet why would one do such a thing, when the smell is so inviting. For who am I kidding. I love the way she smells. I love the way my couch smells now. I love the way the
smell of the couch – her smell – gets trapped in my nose; like a semi-permanent reminder of the other afternoon.
Now if only I can convince her to return and get her to sit on the other two cushions, it would be like a matching sofa set. A matching sofa set that smells like her.