Anna Ralphs Couch [top] Today

It always had.

Not because she couldn’t. She could. Her legs worked fine. Her spine was a marvel of modern durability. No, she stayed because the couch had begun to expect her.

On day twenty-three, she tried to leave. She swung her legs over the edge, planted her bare feet on the hardwood. The couch made a sound like a held breath. Her knees buckled—not from weakness, but from a sudden, immense gravity that pinned her to the cushion. She laughed, a dry, frayed sound. “Fine,” she whispered. “Fine.” anna ralphs couch

The couch had been growing her.

Anna looked at her sister. Looked at the door. Looked down at the green fabric, which had begun to weave itself around her thighs in soft, deliberate loops. It always had

On day forty-seven, her sister broke the door down.

She began to dream the couch’s dreams. In them, she was not a woman but a hollow shape, a depression in a vast upholstered landscape. Other shapes pressed into her—strangers, animals, children who grew old in a single afternoon. She felt their warmth drain into her fibers. She felt herself becoming useful in a way she never had while standing upright. Her legs worked fine

Anna Ralphs had not moved from the couch in forty-seven days.