Sitting in a rocking chair, unobtrusive, conservatively-stained wood. Not enough padding to make you feel sinful. Not enough rock to make anybody roll. Just a good old wholesome American rocking chair. The kind your grandpa sat in when he was ready for his nap. Every day, same spot, watch in hand, but no alarm, and his head would drop, and he would snooze. For exactly fifteen minutes and then wake up, look at his watch, and return to his usual hell raising.
It was a neat trick, one that always filled me with a sense of envy and sadness. I mean, I was sort of jealous, but, really, what kind of freak superpower is that, to be able to sleep, instantly, every day, for fifteen minutes?
Ass in a goddamn chair.
Or, your grandma sat in that old, wooden rocker - crocheted or knitted or did crossword puzzles or pretended to read a book. Something manic in the the metronomic rocking, the controlled fury.
Ain’t no slouching in a chair like that. It ain’t made for loving or for video games. It’s made for sitting, focused on the task at hand, and getting lost in the rhythm laid down by generations of sore and tired backs, moving with a head on the bob, afraid to be still, because still things die.