night_moves pony The middle of the bed, an arbitrary space that he takes for his own when I'm not in it, and often when I am. A strip at the side, between his contempt and the wall, is just enough for my narrow body to lie still and turn stiff. A queen, inaptly named, sized for a man and his subordinate. Most nights I retreat to the couch, a space narrower yet freer, my only opposition the slouched and worn cushions incapable of holding contempt for anything, remaining indifferent to the crushing weight of unyielding bodies. 240219 what's it to you? who go blather from