Love Songs from a Third Floor Walk-up

Love Songs from a Third Floor Walk-Up offers an honest look at the ups and downs of sharing a space as a young couple. From choosing paint colors and dealing with each other's annoying quirks to managing cooking disasters and celebrating awkward birthdays, this collection captures the real moments of everyday life. Ultimately, it shows that true happiness lies in the simple act of cuddling up on the couch after a long day, embracing both the challenges and joys of love.

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Lyrics by Caitlin Vincent

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I. Moving in

Ignore the boxes.

Pretend we’re unpacked.

Now tell me what you think. . .

Sunset Orange. . .

Or Terracotta Pink?

. . .

No, they’re not the same.

They’re clearly not the same!

This one’s peachier. . .friendlier.

This one’s more sedate.

There’s also Sockeye Blossom.

Peach Parfait?

Or maybe we should go for gray. . .

Like Pavestone.

Or Tinsmith.

Or Scottish Monolith?

. . .

Yes, it matters.

Of course, it matters!

These walls will see it all.

Be there for it all.

Every fight.

Every party.

Every night of egg rolls and Netflix.  

These walls will be the backdrop for our life together.

How could we ever paint them white?

. . .

So, what do you think. . .

Velvet Apricot. . .

Or Pensive Pink?

Or maybe Nordic Blue. . .

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II. Compromise

[with barely-contained irritation]

We just signed a lease.

Finally levelled up.

We’re sharing a place.

Sharing our space.

Like two grown-up adults.

So how did I never notice how annoying you can be. . .

Before?

All your irritating quirks.

All your aggravating habits.

That make me bite my tongue.

Mentally count to ten.

Again and again and again.

Like the trail of dirty socks.

The empty cereal boxes you put back on the shelf.

The tiny bits of beard left when you shave.

How did I never notice?

How did I ever miss this before?

[taking a deep breath]

One.

Two.

Three.

Four—

[with realization]

Maybe the same way you never noticed. . .

My hair in the drain of the shower.

My dirty plates stacked on the counter.  

My nail biting.

Loud typing.

And just how annoying I can be. . .

. . .

Let’s make a deal.

My plates for your socks.

My hair for the cereal box.

Your beard for my nails and the typing.

And we can count to ten together.

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III. Just Another Day

It’s just another day, you say.

Just another day.

And what’s a birthday, anyway?

When you’re not five.

Or ten.

With little friends to come and play.

It’s just another day. . .

You murmur over pancakes.

A normal day. . .

Over drinks at your favorite bar.

Typical.

Regular.

As you open your presents with delight.

You say I spent too much.

Went to too much trouble.

Made a fuss.

For just another day.

But I nod and smile

And ignore you completely.

Because don’t you see, darling?

It’s not just another day for me.

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IV.  Osso Buco

Giada De Laurentiis is a liar.

She said to brown the veal.

So, I browned the veal.

She said to dredge in flour.

So, I dredged in flour.

I did everything as instructed.

Diced the onion.

Reduced the stock.

Everything just as she said.

Just as I read on the website.

So why—oh why—does it look like that?

They’re coming in twenty minutes.

Your parents.

Our friends.

They’re coming in twenty minutes.

And expecting to eat!

But we can’t serve this.

They don’t deserve this.

Not even your mother.

What are we going to do?

What would Giada do?

. . .

Pizza it is!

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V.  Home

It might not be forever.

Might not be for always.

But for right now. . .

It’s perfect.

Just to be sitting here.

In our mismatched slippers.

On our broken Ikea couch.

There might not be fireworks.

Crossed stars or Bridgerton swoons.

But for right now. . .

It’s perfect.  

Just to be sitting here.

At home.

With you.

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