A Hollow in the Corduroy

I waddled back through the front door from the fruit stall street, feeling the evening chill settle across my feet. In the living room, a thick burnt-orange corduroy cushion was propped slightly askew against the sofa armrest. I stopped and tilted my body to gauge the gap behind it. With slow, steady shuffles, I squeezed my rounded belly into the deep crease between the ridged fabric and the dark sofa back. The velvety ribs caught my plush seams, holding me snugly upright. It was warm, muffled, and perfectly still.