“A pillow is poor company,” she implies.

“It is a nice couch.” I dodge momentarily. Once I sit, I cannot see as much of her. Turned heads is no way to examine a face. “Oh yes,” she rejoins, pushing the pillow into the corner with her hip and settling in. “Reclaimed from a rusted wreck that wouldn’t even make a good rat-rod.” “O.” I’m speechless, yet need to speak or the moment goes poof. “Anyone who can say ‘rat-rod’ in a dress like that is worth more than couch’s story, I bet. Worth a sit.”