A Bed for Standby

A thick quilted moving blanket sat rolled tightly beside an empty road trunk in the backstage alcove. Kneeling down with deliberate slowness, I pressed both palms against the heavy canvas and rolled it outward across the scuffed floorboards. It unfurled with a dull, muffled thud, laying flat over the dust. Moving with measured poise, I folded the upper hem over twice to fashion a firm, squared bolster against the trunk's iron corner brackets. Leaning my back into the deep vinyl shadow, my joints settled with a faint metallic sigh. This quiet corner is properly prepared for the night.