That sofa used to talk back every time somebody sat too hard. Springs squealin’, cushion slippin’, like it had opinions. Mama said it was just old, but I swear it argued more with some folks than others. Me? It always been loud with me.
Till that day.
House quiet when I came in, that middle-of-the-day quiet where clocks sound disrespectful. Sun sittin’ across the hardwood floor, layin’ itself over the rug like it tired too. Teapot already on the stove, steam puffin’ even though nobody been in the kitchen a minute.
I ain’t ask questions. Just poured.
Tea smell rich—dark leaves, a lil honey, somethin’ earthy that remind you healing take time. Mug warm my palms before I even take a sip.
I sit down on the sofa, bracin’ for the usual noise.
Nothin’.
No squeal. No groan. Just a soft exhale, like it finally stopped fightin’ me.
I lean back slow, waitin’ for protest. Still quiet. Cushion settle around me instead of slippin’ away. Coffee table close enough for my mug, steady as ever. Lamp hum low like it mindin’ its business.
Mama come out the bedroom then, hair wrapped, eyes careful.
“You drinkin’ tea?” she ask.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sofa ain’t mad today.”
She smile like she understand somethin’ I just learnin’.
“Sometimes furniture get tired of holdin’ people who won’t hold theyselves,” she say.
That sit heavy.
I sip. Tea bitter then smooth, like it forgave me halfway through. I let my shoulders drop. Let my breath slow. Sofa don’t complain. Floor stay quiet. House feel like it unclench its jaw.
“I been fightin’ rest,” I admit.
Mama nod. “Ain’t you.”
She go back to her room, door closin’ gentle. I stay still, mug warm, tea halfway gone, sofa finally at peace beneath me.
Outside, wind brush the windows. Inside, furniture mind its business and do its job.
And me?
I stop argu(e)in’ too.
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