Calling It a Day

My boots were caked with street grit and my arm blades felt twice as heavy after pounding asphalt all afternoon. I marched back through the front door gap, completely done with walking. The big sofa looked like a solid mountain. I grabbed the coarse woven fabric with my forearm saw, hauled my weight straight up over the armrest, and collapsed face-down between two bulky throw pillows. The dense foam gave way with a soft creak under my chest. No buzzing bike gears, no wind rattling tin cans. I dug my boots into the crease, tucked my blades flat against the wool cushion, and let my engine cool down in the dark.