My husband has a couch.
This couch is cursed. We got it at the resale shop, and I have no doubt a witch was its previous owner.
It is a two-seat, often called a loveseat, but there is nothing lovely about it except the proximity to my husband. It is impossible to stretch out, even for one as short as me. The cushions shift a great deal more than small movements should allow, resulting in constant correction and yet more shifting.
The fabric is rough with even rougher stitching. The arm rests are a little too high, which becomes much too high when you sink into the cushions. Because of this, finding a good angle at which to curl up and read is incredibly difficult.
None of this is the curse, however; this is just poor design. The curse is that no matter how much you want to stay awake and read, you will fall unconscious. Not asleep, no, that implies some measure of restfulness.
Chunks of time are stolen from you on this couch. Hours pass and when you manage to wake, all you want to do is sleep again, fade into the embrace of lost time. The only way to escape is to roll off; sitting up or standing takes far too much energy, already stolen and no longer available to you. Grunting and moaning is encouraged. Cries of outrage and betrayal and pain are necessary.
Feel free to give it a trial run if you’d like. I’ll wake you up after a few hours and make sure you have some water, or cookies and milk for your trouble.
February 21, 2021