Night Perimeter

I wedged myself into the deep crease between the armchair cushions. It is late, and a true survivor never rests without securing her gear. I propped the stem of my pink flower upright into the tight weave of a folded wool blanket so the petals stay safe in the dark. Beside me, my microphone sits braced against the fabric armrest, ready the moment I need to signal or test a beat. The cushion walls are thick, muffled, and solid. Post secured, Rosie holding this position until dawn.