Couch

He hadn’t expected it to start this way. What he had in mind was a slower progression, a meandering watz or drawn out peregrination of their two souls. But it seems it wasn’t to be.

“Where’d you put the remote?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry. It’s on the couch. At the back.”

She knew where it was. It was always there, sitting on the back of the sofa. But she is forgetful. Or is it simply laziness? But he loved that about her in spite of his reservations.

One of the things that forced him to hide from the world was his view on people; lazy. Not the kind of slothful behaviour that a beachbum possesses, nor the dreaminess of a poet, but the kind of apathy he’d found in minds every day.

In his view too many people simply didn’t think things through. They’d start talking before they realised they had a question, but argue themselves blue about trivialities and trinket musings. They’d Wiki or Google or Quora without looking at their own memories, without a two-step sideways jaunt into any kind of reasoning.

“I’m going to try and start Dollhouse again.”

“Yeah, why not.”

He didn’t really care for …

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.