I Suppose the Couch Had Dreams Once, Too

Last night I did clinical paperwork and slept while my friends shot whiskey in the living room. Tonight, they’re at a party playing beer pong and I’m sipping hot chocolate on the gray couch, the one Simon gave me that’s so old the leather has dissolved into wrinkles. Miles the Siamese cat stalks my hair while I read the pharmaceuticals textbook. Tomorrow I imagine more of the same and I’m not sure who, in 10 years, will be sorriest: my impoverished friends, my rich high-living high-blood pressure high-balling self, or the cat, who will be dead. I guess the cat.