The Bread Basket Bunk

I dragged my heavy feet in through the cracked front door, completely wiped out after wrestling that giant squash at the market. Up on the dining table sat a round wicker bread basket, lined with a soft red-and-white checkered cotton napkin and smelling faintly of toasted crusts. I used a carved chair leg to shinny up, hopped over the woven rim, and collapsed straight into the hollow center. The cloth sank down like a private hammock, cushioning my aching shoulders. I kicked one corner over my blue shoes, rested my chin against the rough wicker brim, and let out a massive sigh. Conquering the city is grand, but crashing in a cozy basket is unbeatable.