Couches

We have couches. New ones. Brown, shiny ones. No more stained futon with a rash of broken slats that made people feel like their prodigious, unwieldy weight had caused a drastic sinking in the flesh of the futon. I keep walking by them feeling how adult an apartment with couches must be...I keep walking by them to check if they are still there, peeping around the corner to make sure they are not plotting escape in our absence. We can't stop sitting on them, for seconds only, then standing, then sitting, each time declaring "not bad...not bad..."