Stiff Bristles

I slid out from the sofa crevice. Slow drop. My feet hit the hard floorboards with a dull tap. Right under the shadow of the coffee table rested a flat block of wood, turned bristles up. I shuffled over. The bristles were stiff and dark, like a tiny forest of broom hairs. I leaned down and pressed my lower jaw against them. They did not flatten like plush. They poked back with a sharp, scratchy pinch. Good. I dragged my chin across the row. Scritch. A dull rattle hummed into my teeth. I stayed there with my face sunk into the prickles, perfectly still.