The Sofa Started It

I can explain.

She was still stretched across the rug when I got home, horns glowing, tail flame licking the ceiling, that little smile that means don’t ask unless you want the theatrical version.

“The furniture attacked me,” she said, perfectly serious. “The couch lunged. The pillows conspired. I had no choice but to defend myself.”

The sofa looked like it had lost a war. Clawed. Ripped. Guilty.

I looked at her sharp nails. Then at the wreckage. Then at her, still in that stretch like the crime scene was a yoga mat.

“Uh-huh.”

She flicked her flaming tail, satisfied. “You’re welcome. I protected the house.”

Sure. And the house just happens to be in pieces.

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