When the man was boy they inherited a white vinyl couch from his granddad. It was crinkly, cold and hard. He was terrified of the dark and used to fall asleep downstairs on the couch and listen to his parents fight. He laid there and looked at the large wooden door. It was cherry apple red. There were no cracks in the door. No whistle but a dull thud. And thump.
In the perfect stillness of the night, the man can feel the earth spin. He vibrates the world. The world answers. Call. Answer. Call. Answer. Like lightning bugs in July. He lies there quietly, arms stiffly at his side. He hopes that they never bury him under ground. On cool mornings the coffee tastes so good.
