Our couch faces the fireplace and the TV. We’ve nested with pillows, a coffee table for books, magazines and our feet, and lamps for reading under. In winter I fill pitchers with flowers and light the fire yet we eye each other as pen and ink drawings off a Gorey page. You can tell where he sits by the bits of food on the rug. We’ve had sex on the couch tossing the Times and books to the floor scrambling for the right fit, but that’s not the norm. We mostly eat, drink and watch MSNBC’s political news like zombies.