19th c. chaise lounge

She sits on the  dubious comfort of a well-intentioned couch. It had once been roly-poly, but its horsehair stuffing had been flattened by time and use. Now, it was a child’s drawing of the thing it’s supposed to be.

Equally dubious, she sits on the aspirational couch and allows Dr. Salt to prod at her equally flattened softness. Resentfully, she feels her stuffing begin to ooze. She sets her jaw and jams it back in. She does not like Dr. Salt, but she had promised Henry. Sadness has made her difficult to live with.

Dr. Salt’s techniques are reasonable, but they strike her as somewhat sinister. He calls them “grounding”, as if she were lightening that must be bottled.

How does the couch feel, Dr. Salt drones. Tell me, how does it feel?

Dr. Salt, she thinks, looks determined.

“Dead”, she replies. She is determined too, and it shows on her face, which is cool, and smooth, hard. Very unlike the couch.

Dr. Salt’s brow furrows with clinical concern. She frowns and sees that she’d better explain.

“The couch is an object, Dr. Salt. In terms of feeling, it’s a dead thing. It has no nerves, no skin. There is nothing to hurt. Or is that not what you meant?”

Dr. Salt is quiet.

She plucks at a loose thread in the brocade, certain that she is not causing pain.