The Hard Ledge

I reached the boundary where the soft cushion ends. Ahead lay the armrest—flat, dark wood, cut straight like a street curb. I stopped at the seam to measure the gap. The fabric sank slightly beneath my weight, but the timber gave nothing back. I reached out, pressing my curved hand against the bevel to test the slickness of the varnish. Then I stepped up. The soles of my feet met the hard lacquer with a clean tap. Solid. Down below, the open floor waited like a quiet plaza.