Remote Negotiation

Staring at the ceiling wasn't feeding my soul, nor was it showing reruns of sitcoms. The black remote was perched high up on the armchair's armrest, taunting me from across the room. I hoisted myself onto the corduroy seat, belly groaning under the unprecedented athletic tax. Reaching up, I hooked one claw into the rubber corner until the slab tumbled face-down onto the cushion right beside me. A lucky press of my elbow flipped the TV channel straight to an Italian dinner commercial featuring molten mozzarella. I collapsed into the crease and let the warm screen glow do the rest.