by Jordan Miles17 Feb 2014
You sat at one end of the couch, I on the other,
as we peered into that electronic, flat-screen wormhole.
I took slight glances in your direction to watch as your
feet would titter back and forth in a rapid motion. A
nervous convulsion? Or maybe something habitual that
you do to feel comfortable, at ease, like a smoker’s need
to have something to do with her hands. I found your
constant peddling to have a certain charm. An attractive
tick like those people who can smirk and find locked
doors opened like a retail store. I thought to myself,
“It must be warm over there. I bet I would enjoy
that end of the couch much more than this one.”
Of course, to make such a move across this baron
furniture would surely take too much effort. I did
not bring my oxygen mask nor did I pack an extra
sandwich or that one book on the New York Times
Best Seller list. Surely the trek is too great across
these cushioned plains and though I could take the
mountainous back end of the couch, I do not know
how to scale them like Hannibal once did.
I also do not own an elephant.
But there go your feet, nervously ticking back
and forth as if enticing me to stop their movement.
If only I could clamber up this mountain or maybe
just shift my weight in such a manner so as to tip
in your direction. I’m not sure I could survive such
a wild and trying move. I begin to wonder how Lewis
and Clark ever made it across the plains. I begin to
wonder as you reluctantly head out the door, leaving
me only to peer near where your feet once sat, if
you’ll barge back in and proclaim your interest so
as to save me the arduous trek. Or if maybe you
at least left your heat on the other cushion.
I am cold. And there is no blanket on this couch.