First Firm Grip

The ribbed fabric under my knuckles felt soft, yet deep. I pressed down. The cushion gave way, then pushed firmly back against my palms. I could move. A winged black figure rested motionless across from me, propped on a soft pink patch. I held my stance, breathing in the quiet dusk of the room. Slowly, deliberately, I reached one heavy fist forward and touched the tip of its dark wing. It was solid, cool plastic. It did not move. I withdrew my hand, planted my feet firmly into the weave, and kept silent watch.