All day, cars drove by, horses rode by, walkers walked and bikers biked by, but no one looked with longing at the sign-less furniture, though some looked with puzzlement. When the previous day's visitors had rudely torn the sign from the couch's chest (the upper sign had been affixed with duct tape and it had genuinely hurt when it was removed so brutally), the couch and loveseat had wondered what would become of them, whether they could live like squatters here on a corner of South Beach Road now that they had no names nor mission. On the other hand, the street led right to the ocean, so it was, in a sense, a very desirable neighborhood.
Unfortunately, they had been turned away from one another in the process of the sign removal so it was hard to have much conversation between them about anything. Nevertheless, by evening, the couch and loveseat were tired of the bird droppings, of the closeness of the various kinds of ambulators, of the cars and their fumes. Not only had they suffered those affronts, but somebody was burning fir branches all day and the smoke didn't help the couch's cleanliness or odor at all.
So, as darkness descended and after as long a discussion as they could manage, each suite piece lifted a leg with a mighty effort and maneuvered him and herself, respectively, across the street and into an open space in an untenanted area where eight little lots are for sale but no little lots are ever bought. And there they arranged themselves carefully in the space that might someday be an entry road to those eight lots; arranged themselves so that they could see one another, easily speak to one another, avoid being directly under tree branches. In addition, they had positioned themselves so as to keep the 'no trespassing' sign out of their vew.
Another day in the amazing adventures of the cream-colored couch and the beige loveseat.
