Love Letter to the Woman Who Didn’t Buy My Couch
IDK—maybe it’s just me, but I’m always pretty sure I’m about to be murdered. I don’t trust strangers, and I assume the worst, which probably makes me a judgmental asshole. But I can’t help it?
Recently, I’ve been on FB marketplace quite frequently because I’m getting ready to move. And I have this nearly fatal obsession with being almost fully moved out by the time I actually need to move out. I’ve already sold two bookshelves, my coffee table, and an entryway table. I keep stuffing random items under my boyfriend’s bed (that’s where I’m moving—into his place), and he’s like, “Literally, why are you doing this?”
The next big item to sell: my blue velvet couch.
A couple of days after the listing went up, I had a woman from FB marketplace insist on coming over to look at my blue velvet sofa, and I said yes. I thought it would be a good move as a Fledgling FB Marketplace Sales Person. The customer is always right, or something like that.
Anyway, I stalked her profile before she came over to make sure she was real, and I saw a picture of someone I assumed was her son. He looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Still, the picture of the familiar son at least told me the woman was real and probably somewhat normal and hadn’t filled up her profile with images from Google.
And, as a backup, I planned to have my mom there with me in case I was being catfished or set up for abduction. Of course, the lady was majorly delayed and my mom ended up having to leave, and I was like it’s fine: Either this goes really well and she buys the couch, or I am murdered in the middle of a random Saturday. Happens all the time. When the woman pulled up, we made inane small talk, and it turns out her son was my RA in college, so then I knew she was real and “normal” and unlikely to kill me.
Well, people surprise you all the time. Obviously she didn’t kill me, but she did shock and disrupt me every five seconds throughout the encounter. The first thing she did when we walked upstairs to my apartment was plop herself down at the table and start showing me pictures of her entire family while also sharing their academic and career successes. I stood there, awkwardly hovering near the doorway, because my mom advised me to keep the door open and try to make the encounter quick. (Minute 10: “I’m going to leave soon, don’t worry.”)
I didn’t know what to do, so I kept gently nodding my head while she talked and saying, “Interesting,” which only egged her on. I almost asked her if she’d like a glass of water, but then I knew we’d be tethered together for even longer.
We talked about everything and barely even looked at the couch. We discussed ADHD, how she went to Harvard for a bit (I accidentally wore my uncle’s old Harvard Crew sweatshirt), how the business school at UNC Chapel Hill is antiquated in her own “personal, humble opinion,” how teachers make no money (I accidentally told her I’m a teacher), how quarantine was a lost year for her two youngest kids, how she was going to leave soon and I shouldn’t worry (Minute 20), how kids don’t learn how to write anymore in school, how my living room and kitchen space combined are much smaller than the giant room she needs the couch for, how she’s been married for 32 years (she said this 47 times), why I’m not engaged yet, when she thinks I may be engaged based off me selling the couch in the first place. The list goes on.
In the end, she stayed for 45 minutes and ended up not buying the couch. I love her. And I never want to see her again.
