Move Therapy

I bought an antique desk on Nextdoor over the weekend and last night Bevan and I drove the half mile from our house to Duboce Triangle to pick it up. Upon our arrival we discovered that the desk, a squat, chartreuse tank measuring four feet wide by two and a half feet deep, was stationed on the seller’s second-floor back patio that was accessible only by way of a narrow, low-ceilinged alleyway. It was during the hauling of said desk through said alleyway that the following conversation took place.

Me: Lower your end, Bevan! I can’t lift mine any higher!

Bevan: I’m trying, Corey! This thing’s heavy!

The Seller: Do you guys need some help?

Me (straining out a smile): Nope, all good! I said lower it, Bevan! Jesus Christ!

Bevan: Thanks for the offer though! You wanna do it yourself, Corey? I’m more than happy to let you try!

The Seller: How long have you two been together?

Me: A trillion millenniums. Tilt it to the right, Bevan!

Bevan: Seven and a half years. I am tilting it to the right, Corey!

The Seller: Do you live in the neighborhood?

Me: In the Castro. Dammit Bevan, watch the corner!

Bevan: Just above the flag. You watch the corner, Corey!

The Seller: That’s close to my office.

Me: Neat! Ow, Bevan! You could have told me there was a pipe behind me!

Bevan: What do you do for work? I would have, Corey, if you weren’t pulling so damn hard!

The Seller: I’m a therapist.

Me: Great! Walk faster, Bevan!

Bevan: A worthy profession! Walk slower, Corey!

The Seller: A couples therapist.

Me: Oh, neat. Lookin’ strong, B! Keep it up!

Bevan: Therapy is very important. Doin’ great, Core!

Kari in Love

Early yesterday evening a TaskRabbit named Jackson and I worked a vintage leather chesterfield out of his van and into the bay window of Kari's snug second-floor studio in the Lower Haight. For two years I've begged her to buy a couch so I wouldn't have to sit on her bed during visits and last week she finally found one on Craigslist. Its seller, a young man living in Russian Hill, told her that it had been passed down to him by his father but wouldn't fit in the new place he was renting with his girlfriend.

"He seemed kinda sad to let it go," Kari told me. "His girlfriend did not."

The original chesterfield sofa, with its distinctive deep-buttoned, quilted leather upholstery and low seat base, was said to have been commissioned by Lord Phillip Stanhope, the 4th Earl of Chesterfield, who longed for a piece of furniture that would allow a gentleman to sit comfortably upright without wrinkling his clothes.

"I woke up at 4:00am and just stared at it," Kari said this morning of her new roommate via text message. "I can't believe it's real."

I, of course, know exactly how she feels.

That Lovin' Feeling

My iambic pentameter has been on the fritz since Christmas and I left my last sack of metaphors in a cab, so I've opted to eschew penning a sonnet and will instead articulate my feelings using an equally sophisticated and time-consuming form of poetry—haiku.

Silence, please.

Skin tanned and smooth, legs
small, strong. Luscious curves abound.
I doze in your lap.

Although we only met a scant three days ago, I'm undeniably certain that I've finally found that can't-eat, can't-sleep, reach-for-the-stars, over-the-fence, world-series kind of love that Kirstie Alley's character describes in It Takes Two, the 1995 Warner Bros. comedy starring Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen.

As a matter of fact, so undeniably certain am I of my feelings that I've arranged for the subject of the above poem to move in with me. And while I realize the magnitude of such an invitation, it just felt right.

Plus, I had some extra space next to my bookshelf.