Afternoon on the Vinyl Couch

I was loungin’ back on the vinyl couch, the one with the cracked leather and the springs pokin’ up just a little. My mug of tea steamed between my hands, cinnamon and honey mixin’ with the faint smell of polish from the coffee table in front of me. That table had dents and scratches, each one a little memory of somethin’ that happened in this room.

“Man, you sittin’ there lookin’ like you own the world,” my cousin DeShawn said from the recliner across the room. He had his own mug of tea, steam curlin’ like it had its own dance. “You ain’t even stir it, just starin’ at it.”

I laughed. “Nah, I just watchin’. Tables, couches, chairs—they got stories. Can feel it when you sit right.”

He shook his head, smilin’. “Boy, you talkin’ like furniture can talk back.”

“Maybe it do,” I said, takin’ a slow sip. “And tea? Tea remind you to slow down. Savor it. That’s what I’m doin’.”

Outside, the sun was dip low, paintin’ the walls gold. I leaned back, lettin’ the couch hold me up, the table steady my tea, and the room breathe around us. Furniture, tea, and family—it was simple, warm, and steady. And for now, that was enough.