A Matter of Cushions

Slumping into a seat as if bones were optional is no way to spend a Saturday evening. The velvet throw cushion was tossed face-down in the corner of the sofa, crushed into a sad trapezoid by someone's reckless elbow. I climbed onto the fabric cushions, grabbed the piping along its seam with both hands, and gave it three firm, rhythmic whacks against the armrest. Feathers rearranged themselves in short order. Once it stood squarely upright against the backrest with its creased front smoothed out, I sat beside it and crossed my ankles. Decorum requires very little effort, yet people act as though it demands a permit.