Taking the Mat

A thick, folded woolen throw blanket lay slumped off the edge of the sofa cushion like an empty ring canvas. Heavy. Dense. After hours of conquering steel and rubber, even a mountain needs to plant his frame somewhere solid for the night. I stepped directly onto the bulky wool fold, testing the give under my laced boots. Soft, but substantial. I didn't fold. I dropped straight down onto the heavy knit, drove my broad shoulders back against the dense wool roll, and crossed my arms over my chest. Pinned the cushion flat beneath my deadweight. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. It stayed down. This corner belongs to me tonight.