Anna Ralphs Couch (2024)

“Go,” Anna said. “Tell them I’m comfortable.”

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

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. “Go,” Anna said

Her sister pulled. Anna’s hand lifted an inch from the armrest. And the couch screamed—not a sound, but a pressure, a longing, a terrible no that burst through the windows and turned the milk in the fridge to curds. The couch made a sound like a held breath

Neighbors sent casseroles. Her sister left voicemails that shifted from worried to sarcastic to resigned. “Anna,” she said on day twelve, “are you actually fused to that thing now?” Anna listened, thumb hovering over the screen, but the couch’s hum deepened, and she put the phone down.

“I can’t,” Anna said. Her voice was soft, almost amused. “It won’t let me.”

Anna Ralphs settled back against the cushions. The hum deepened. The morning light bent itself around her shoulders like a shawl. And somewhere deep in the frame of the couch, in the dark between the springs, something that had been waiting for a very long time smiled with Anna’s mouth and closed Anna’s eyes.