Anna Ralphs Couch Here

“I can’t,” Anna said. Her voice was soft, almost amused. “It won’t let me.”

It always had.

The couch had been growing her.

On day forty-seven, her sister broke the door down.

“Anna, for God’s sake—”

Neighbors sent casseroles. Her sister left voicemails that shifted from worried to sarcastic to resigned. “Anna,” she said on day twelve, “are you actually fused to that thing now?” Anna listened, thumb hovering over the screen, but the couch’s hum deepened, and she put the phone down.

Anna Ralphs settled back against the cushions. The hum deepened. The morning light bent itself around her shoulders like a shawl. And somewhere deep in the frame of the couch, in the dark between the springs, something that had been waiting for a very long time smiled with Anna’s mouth and closed Anna’s eyes. anna ralphs couch

Her sister pulled. Anna’s hand lifted an inch from the armrest. And the couch screamed—not a sound, but a pressure, a longing, a terrible no that burst through the windows and turned the milk in the fridge to curds.