Author: June Irving

The evening I met my husband, we slunk into a fake denim sleeper couch, a hand-me-down that resided in my dad and mom’ basement for years, after too many PBRs and tequila photographs. I insisted he watch a number of episodes of “Scrubs,” clumsily bringing my physique nearer to his on the squishy cushions, my limbs made limp by alcohol.Just a few months later, after one half-hearted try of transferring that steel more-machine-than-couch, we gave up and I accepted the lack of my deposit as I moved out of my favourite city residence with vintage chevron pine flooring and into…