Cushioned
An afternoon in a sofa warehouse. There is a sale on. There is always a sale on. In the event of humanity’s destruction, a single sofa salesman would remain at his post here, hoping for civilisation’s return, desperate to shift that cream three-piece. I can purchase a leather sofa on interest free credit. An echo of a cow remade as a fetching banquette.
A man with squeaky, rubber soled shoes shuffles over and asks if I need help. I do but I don’t believe his selection of lounge furniture can do the job. Ahead of me my girlfriend and her mother are trying out sofas. They comment on the squigy quality of cushions and the threat of cat scratches to sweaty brown leather.
I turn round and see myself in a large round mirror: it’s Caspar The Confused Looking Ghost. I am so pale, I look like an unfinished portrait smeared out with charcoal and lard. Maybe a new sofa would solve everything. That salesman is good.
