The comfy couch

They stopped at a food cart in the square and waited in line for the bearded man with gauges in his earlobes to hand them free samples of his craft cola. They each took one, putting on gloves to drink it, warding off the chill where air meets bottle. "Of course it's in a bottle," said Francia. "A can would be unartisinal." They walked briskly, window shopping, chatting, mocking, laughing. Marley threw his bottle away but Francia was still drinking as they entered the furniture store. "More than a collection, it's a concept," claimed the stark poster as they entered. Francia drank the last of the soda and handed the bottle to Marley as though he was her mother. Wordlessly he put it in his pocket until he could find a garbage. 

They walked through the store, full of people, an unshaven French man holding his phone in front of him like a child with an imaginary toy, as he discovered the wonders of mid-century modern. "Adorable!" He shouted to the phone, bumping into anybody between his phone and the object of his desire. They plopped onto a purple (eggplant) velvet sofa, looking at the grid of sectional options, unable to decipher the color coding and the names of the furniture and fabrics, named for children of the 1920s -- Anna, Kendrick, Helena, Lillian. They waited for a sales clerk to notice them and ask if they needed help, but since they were clearly not Russian billionaires or Chinese tourists, they were duly ignored.

Marley's snore woke them both up. They were sweating in their coats, one glove on the floor. Looking around, no one seemed to notice them. "We've been here an hour," Marley said, looking at his watch. They gathered their clothes, and as they walked away, Francia noticed a dark spot on the sofa where the soda bottle had dripped from Marley's pocket as he slept.