There is silence in the house and a white pleather couch stares at me. It sits there white and opened armed waiting for my embrace. My legs are crossed and I am wearing my new brown Converse All-Stars. In the other room my lover is working on a drawing in her black sketchbook. My small half-witted dog rests its undersized head on his front paws and looks longingly out the window, which is colored in by winter. Lunch is soon to be served someplace in the world. I feel as if I should have some sort of conversation with the white pleather couch. Maybe ask it how it manages to sit so still all the time. I feel as if I should take off my clothes and lay down on what looks like its very comforting white cushions. Then maybe I will feel safe and satisfied. My half-witted dog now growls at a bird ravaging around in the bird feeder. I am not annoyed or angry because the metallic hum of the heater quiets my mind. I am a bit impatient to do something, like throw myself into the womb of the white pleather couch or finally accept an old childhood challenge and see if I can go fit myself into the refrigerator. But it is almost evening and I have important things that I still need to avoid doing.