It was the living room at my Grandmother’s old house. All the same figurines and furniture decorated the room, the same handful of hardback mystery novels on the shelf, those same beat-up slippers discarded by the chair. Each tick of the clock on the wall punctuated the stillness. It was early morning and there was faint light and frost at the windows, but I came in wrapped in a blanket, carrying my own pillow, looking to sleep on the couch. I felt exhausted, and this cozy room seemed like the nicest place on Earth to rest.
But there was someone there, a woman I used to work with, sitting off in the shadows in some corner of the room. Just as I was about to settle in on the couch, she spoke up and told me, “You can’t sleep here. Your Grandmother’s not around anymore. There’s other people that live here now. You can’t just go and sleep on other people’s couches.”
I waved her off. I knew that what she said was true, but I was so tired, I didn’t care. I got comfortable on the couch, mumbling to her that they wouldn’t mind, that I was just going to nap for a little while, that no one would care if I was just taking a nice innocent little nap, not bothering anyone. And so I kept mumbling on and on like that, making every excuse I could think of until everything faded and I drifted back off to sleep.