About half of my time spent alone with Caleb is having discussions about who has better taste in art and furniture. Half is definitely an exaggeration. Let’s say 75% of the time we’re talking about our relationship, 10% of the time about work, 10% of the time about ourselves, and 5% of the time we’re debating chairs.
Like the Herman Miller molded fiberglass Eames chair that we have in our living room, which abuts the “battleship,” more commonly referred to as the chaise lounge.
“That thing is like a Bakelite bracelet,” I say to him. “Everyone wants to collect them, but no one actually sits in one.”
“I sit in it,” he says, walking over to it, and planting himself down. “It’s very comfortable.”
“It’s like sitting in a McDonald’s chair,” I say. “And no you don’t, not unless I challenge you to it.”
“I bought it at a flea market in San Francisco from an old lady who didn’t even know what she was sitting on,” he protested.
“Her ass probably hurt like a motherfucker,” I say.