Seven Red Flags and a Couch

Lori Horvitz

Word Count 1325

It was an impulse buy, that couch made of logs and branches. It sat in the window of a futon shop, and once it caught my eye, it wouldn’t let go. I didn’t stop to consider how out of place it would look in my ranch-style home. One friend said it belonged in a log cabin. Another said it looked like it was straight out of The Flintstones. But I lived with it, just like I lived with the tiny mounds of powder that collected underneath it every few months. I vacuumed the powder up and told myself it was just residue from the dried-out anti-slip pad between the futon and the frame. No big deal. If the powder was out of sight, it was out of mind. Until it appeared again. 

Which reminds me of a woman I met on Match.com. I’ll call her Sheila. We exchanged a few messages, then she gave me her phone number and deleted her profile. For the next seven weeks, we texted. She didn’t want to talk on the phone or FaceTime. Maybe Red Flag #1. 

I didn’t push. I told her it wasn’t my style, like that futon frame made of logs, but I was okay with not talking. We’d meet soon enough in her hometown of New York City, my old stomping ground, where I already had plans to meet up with my family. But who doesn’t want to talk on the phone at least once before meeting someone from the internet? Not even a quick, awkward call to feel out the connection? It didn’t add up, but I ignored it. 

I texted: Why did you leave Match.com? She said she had already gone through all the women on the dating site, but nothing worked out. She also said she hadn’t been in a relationship in five years. Possibly Red flag #2. 

So many dates, not one match? Not even a short fling? Yet I brushed that aside, like I vacuumed up the powder. After all, Sheila’s texts gave me energy, hope, that high on possibility kind of hope. And then there’s dopamine—dopamine doesn’t give a damn about red flags. 

I sent her a dreamy photo I’d taken on my morning walk—fog suspended over a lake. “My morning view,” I texted. She replied with a picture of a window washer mid-air outside her high-rise, his legs dangling. “Here’s my morning view,” she wrote. I laughed out loud.

In the past, she only had relationships with women much younger than her, like 15 or 20 years younger. Those were the women who were bold, she said, who were direct. The women her age? They were uptight. Not fun. We were the same age. Sort of Red Flag #3.   

Sheila, an infectious disease epidemiologist, graduated from Yale University; she had quite an accomplished resume. And she was a great texter. Funny, smart, edgy. Asked thoughtful questions, sent fun photos, and was consistent. Her clever retorts thrilled me. 

But what didn’t thrill me was the mention of an ex she spent weekends with. They watched movies together, and when it got late, she sometimes spent the night. 

So, they’re good friends. I’m good friends with my exes. But when her ex discovered Sheila was texting me, she “dug into her.” Sheila didn’t stay over that night. She justified the ex’s behavior: she said the ex was cranky from a gummy and two drinks. Solid Red Flag #4. 

I continued to vacuum the tiny mounds of powder under the couch. 

I sent Sheila something with my full name on it. She said, “Now I know your last name.” I asked for her last name. She wouldn’t give it. Why not? “There’s only one picture of me on the internet,” she said, “and it looks like I’m a mortgage loan officer who just rejected a loan application. I’ll tell you when we meet.” Kind of a Red Flag #5.  

We had planned to spend the day together, more than a coffee date, more than a dinner date. 

On 14th Street, she walked toward me with a confident swagger, more attractive than expected, reminding me of Sandra Bullock in Gravity, the one floating alone in orbit. Sexy in that smart, competent way. We walked around the West Village and ducked into a coffee shop during a downpour and talked about families and exes and dating and current events and we laughed and smiled and spent eight and half hours together. 

After dinner, I walked her towards her apartment. She then walked me in the opposite direction, towards my hotel. Then we walked back towards her place. Along the way, she mentioned a woman she’d gone out with. Said it felt like a therapy session—the woman complained about her kids, her job. But she went out on two more dates. The woman was shocked when Sheila ended it. “That happens,” she said. “After three dates, women get surprised when I tell them it’s not going to work out.” Solid Red Flag #6.  

Back at my hotel, I was giddy. Buzzing. Over a year post-breakup and a fantastic first date. I texted: Had a great time. Looking forward to Sunday. She replied: Me too.   

 When we met for brunch, she said she had canceled plans with her ex the night before. She knew it would be a late night and wasn’t feeling great. I told her about my hippie days at college, traveling with the Grateful Dead. During that same time, she’d been president of the Young Republicans at Yale.

After four and a half hours, I needed to meet my sister. I asked how she thought things were going. She said she liked me. When she asked me what I thought of her, I said, “There’s trouble. You’re still hanging out with your ex. She’s in love with you.”    

As we walked towards the subway, she said, “Sometimes she tries to spoon me.”

I stopped. “She spoons you? And you let her?”

“I stay still. Just to keep the peace,” she said. “My therapist thinks it’s sweet.”       

An ambulance sped by. “Your therapist needs a lesson in boundaries! If your ex were a man, things would be much clearer.” Waving Red Flag #7. 

Later that evening, we talked on the phone. She acknowledged that she’d run if she were interested in someone who was still spooning with their ex. She said she wanted to visit me in Asheville. Maybe she was ready to break ties with the ex.

I let myself get reeled back in. Like one of those catch-and-release fish, swimming toward open water, only to hover there, waiting for the hook again. I clung to hope, just like I’d clung to that couch.

Two days after I arrived home, Sheila texted: You never asked about my career. This is not going to work.

I doubt it ever stood a chance.

Four years after I bought the couch, it started clicking. Literally. A soft, rhythmic ticking from beneath me. I got down on the floor and saw tiny holes in the logs. I Googled the situation: powderpost beetles. They lived in the logs. Wood-boring beetles. I called the futon shop. The owner gave me the name of the builder. He said he’d have to fumigate the couch but couldn’t do it for another few weeks. 

Even if it was fumigated, even if the bugs were dead, the wood was already riddled with holes, tiny, burrowed ruins.  

I put the couch out to the curb. Someone took it. I should have put a sign on it: Infested. 

My reckoning wasn’t just about the couch. Or Sheila. It was about how easy it is to adapt to things that don’t feel quite right. The dangerous comfort of ignoring red flags. How when you’re hungry, crumbs can look like a feast. The couch filled a space. So did Sheila. But sometimes the things that fill us also hollow us out. 

Lori’s nonfiction has appeared in a variety of journals, including Hobart, Epiphany, South Dakota Review, The Laurel Review, The New York Times, The Guardian, and Hotel Amerika. Professor Emeritus at UNC Asheville. She’s the author of two collections of memoir essays, The Girls of Usually (Truman State UP), and Collect Call to My Mother: Essays on Love, Grief, and Getting a Good Night's Sleep (New Meridian Arts).