By Roshni Riar, Staff Writer
There’s something oddly defiant
about falling asleep on the couch
with your ready and eager bed
in plain sight.
It’s like sneaking out to see a
forbidden friend,
their eyebrow piercing and
green streak of hair too
offensive and rebellious
for Mom to stomach.
You don’t know why, but
you keep going out to
see them. There’s nothing
in it for you, unless you’re
counting the cramp in your
thighs from contorting your
legs to tuck in where they shouldn’t.
A reckless thrill unfurls in your
chest as you sink into the
cushions, television chatter
turning to white noise, lulling
you into a dreamless crash.
You wake up in three hours,
the lights still on and your stiff
unbuttoned jeans screaming
to be taken off.
Work out the familiar kink
in your neck that sets in when
you prop your head up on
the arm rest without a decorative
Ikea pillow to support you
in your wild abandon. It gets
a little worse every time but
you pretend not to notice.
Stumble, as if drunk, to
hastily slip into bed without
it noticing. Hold your
breath apprehensively. The covers
sigh around you, happy to take
you in. You’ve made it. As you
flip over, catch sight of
your devious couch, waiting
patiently for you to do
this all over again tomorrow.
