The Cushion We Left There

We watched something neither of us had chosen —

some show already running, mid-episode.

The volume low. Between us, the frozen

geometry of a throw pillow: the code

of triangles in rust and gray

that neither of us moved. I kept

looking at it the way

you look at something you've accepted

without deciding to. He laughed

at something on the screen. I followed —

half a beat behind, the draft

of a laugh, the way I borrowed

his timing to make it look natural.

He might have noticed. He's fourteen,

so probably yes. The actual

funny part had already been

and gone by the time I got there.

The cushion between us. The screen

going. The geometric square

of it. The pattern I've seen

a hundred evenings. He got up first.

Said goodnight. I said it back

too slow. The mild thirst

of the moment after. The slack

light of the TV throwing

shapes across the wall. The cushion

still between us. Me not going

anywhere. The pattern doing nothing.