The river was perfect that day. Mattresses floated with disregard. Futons sank, deservedly so. To be a bed and a couch is already too much, and either way, not a boat. Mattresses, however. Who doesn’t want to float with disregard?
(Clarification. There are no metaphors here, only this: allow for lovers on that bridge, old ones especially. How much time do you think you have?)