Home. Always at home.
I’m a slob, sitting around all day. I rarely move from the sofa, and whenever I do, it feels like I’m only getting fatter. Counterintuitive, to be sure. But it’s fairly well kept me in my place.
People don’t sit next to me a lot. Usually they sit on the other side of the room. Rarely do they get very close to me. Sometime they cover me up with a towel, or a plastic bag. They’re embarrassed to see me, a constant reminder of their mistakes.
I’m a burden, both on them and their well-being. Sometimes they’ll argue about whose fault it is I exist. The husband tells his wife that she made him feel too comfortable, like there wasn’t a care in the world. The wife will tell the husband that it’s his fault, he did, after all, drop it.
But still, I sit, and I wait. Maybe they’ll finally get rid of me for good one day. It’ll make everyone happier.
I am a coffee stain on a couch cushion.