An essay about trauma, sleep, and buying a couch. I wish this one were available online, but instead, it’s only in the print issue of Salt Hill 42.

The essay begins:

My vision blurs from fatigue, but since I can’t sleep—since I haven’t slept well in months—I drive to Ashley Furniture to purchase my first brand-new couch. I’d planned on going the gently used route again, but when I flipped up a cushion on a plaid sofa at the Habitat for Humanity home store and spotted an enormous hobo spider waiting for its victim (me), I thought new. New’s the way to go.

I stroll into the lobby and out of the Indiana downpour, shake the rain out of my bangs. A man with black hair gelled into stiff merengue peaks greets me with a deep, enthusiastic drawl. “Are you from Alabama?” I ask. One of my closest friends bleeds Tuscaloosa red, and for a moment, his voice feels like an unexpected hug.

“It’s weird how much people say that. Born in Hawaii, raised here.” He looks me over—will he make a sale?—and half smiles. I picture myself through his eyes: a gal with tattoos, a Lou Reed tee, purposefully mismatched shoes, a decent purse. At best a fifty-fifty shot.

“Do you need help?”

“Nah. I’ve done my research,” I say and wander past him into the store.