It’s an overcast but mercifully warm Sunday afternoon, and Boyfriend and I have driven upstate in search of the small but substantial details that Manhattan life lacks: sitting in a meter-less automobile, paying under $12 for a plate of pancakes, standing beside a tree not encircled by dog shit and concrete. We’re strolling through a picturesque town, the type where words like “lunching” and “antiquing” become actual verbs. The proverbially quaint Main Street is lined with furniture stores marked by distressed wood signs hanging from creaky metal rods above each door. We’ll peek in the windows at the fossilized rocking chairs and gilded chests on display, then amble into the store and glance casually at each item, as if we were one of those couples who furnish their sitting room with century-old Mission chairs and Victorian breakfronts rather than stock their one-bedroom with Craigslist finds and retro coffee tables rescued from their parents’ attic.

“That lamp is awesome.” Boyfriend tugs at my sleeve and points.

“It’s beautiful.” I nod eagerly, pleased that he’s shown interest in home furnishings, and even more pleased that I agree with his taste.

“Should we ask how much it is? We need a nice standing lamp.”

“Sure. Excuse me?” I turn to the owner, perched behind a spectacular mahogany desk. His salt and pepper hair is slicked into a gravity-free pompadour with the ends curled out beneath his ears. He strokes a shaved grey terrier who lolls in his lap.

“Yes?” He looks me over with little interest, knowing there’s no way in Hell I’ll be buying.

“How much is this lamp?”

“The maple? That one is eighty-two twenty-one.” He spouts off the numbers as if he’s reciting the blue plate specials.

I smile to hide my confusion. “Uh, thank you.” I turn to Boyfriend. “Wait, am I nuts or did he just say this lamp was eight grand?”

“Two hundred twenty-one more than eight grand, actually.” Boyfriend smiles and shakes his head.

“For a lamp? Is he insane??” I whisper, leaving my mouth hanging open for dramatic effect. Boyfriend grasps my hand and we shuffle to the other end of the store as I continue ranting. “I mean really, what is he smoking. How on earth could a simple lamp be worth that mu-”

“Holy crap.” Boyfriend halts, raises his eyebrows and takes a step back.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Well we could always get that instead.” He points to a table behind me.

“What? The table? It’s nice but we don’t really have room for-” I trail off in shock. “Oh my God. Is that what I think it is?”

“I don’t think there’s anything else it could possibly be.” He covers his mouth and quakes with laughter.

I follow suit and dissolve into giggles. Sitting on the polished teak slab is a foot-long green copper replica of an erect penis. It could have been created directly from the patented lifesize Ron Jeremy mold.

“That is fantastic. Do you think it’s an antique?” I ask through snorts of laughter.

“Who knows.”

“I suppose they didn’t look all that different a hundred years ago. I wonder how much it is.”

“My guess would be around a grand,” he states matter-of-factly.

“A thousand dollars? We could get one for ten bucks in the West Village.”

“Yeah, and it wouldn’t be nearly as green.”