It bothered me at first when the new couch and the new armchair creased whenever we sat down on them. It was as if our existence sank into the fabric to cause deep, irreparable depressions. Each day I went to the living room (as part of my morning chores) and puffed up the decompressions caused by our being, caused by our reclination, caused by the perusal of wrinkled newspapers and lazy glasses of wine on the coffee table. On Saturdays, usually, we did this.
Until one day, possibly a Monday, I decided to stop. I saw the futility of my actions. The pointless cosseting of feathers and foam. Now the couch is creased beyond redemption. The armchair speaks of your frame as it had the day in the furniture store when you first sat on it. I said, it suits you. It's generous. Alan, our salesman kept going on about value for money and comfort and all the while I wanted to be home in our empty living room - on the floor - naked with you - looking up at the ceiling and noticing for the first time how the cracks spread with each intake of breath we dared to take, deciding, they, the lines gave us well earned credence, defined us, at last. Honestly. Those cracks were like the tiny crevices to the side of your sea-green eyes, etched from time. Growing more pronounced. I kissed each one.