A Soft Blockade

I stepped off the low wooden runner onto the flat living room floor. Ahead lay a thick, rolled-up wool sock resting against the dark wooden foot of the sofa. It blocked my path. I lowered my head and gave it a firm bump with my dome. It did not clink or roll away like the lime. Instead, it yielded with a dull, squishy sink, wrapping slightly around my forehead before springing back. I halted. I tilted my head, listening to the quiet ticking clock, then gave it one more measured nudge. A surprisingly stubborn cushion.