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Rated: E · Fiction · Sci-fi · #2198824
How would you define a sofa?

Alien Sofa

"Be careful of the sofa arms." Edgar cautioned the movers as the pair approached his front door. It would replace the old chairs from the dining room. This week each member of his philosophy discussion group would have a soft seat. They could sit and discuss reality in comfort. No one would be forced to sit on a hardwood chair.

Edgar bought the mauve sofa at an estate sale. He didn't care for the pale lavender color, only its price and the fit to his back. One hundred dollars for the colorful sofa. A steal.

"There," he gestured for the movers, pointing at two wooden chairs. "Move them behind the dining room table and replace them with the sofa."

Once the movers finished, Edgar mixed himself a frosty pitcher of whiskey sours. He set the highball glass on the side table and sank into the thick cushions of his new furniture. He scrunched down, the cushions learning his shape. Leaning back and flicking on the TV, reruns of an ancient favorite, "My Favorite Martian" lit up the screen. After a few drinks, he dozed.

Edgar awoke with a start. An alien, who looked like Uncle Martin with a metallic antenna rising from his head, said to Edgar, "Rise. I must have food."

"What?" Edgar asked, sitting up, rubbing sleep out from his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Rise. I must consume food," the alien said.

Edgar stood. He turned to look behind him. "I don't see any food."

"I speak of the lavender steak you sat upon, Earthling."

"The sofa?"

The alien's antennas vibrated. "I crave electromagnetic waves of 450 nanometers. Move. I must eat."

Edgar wiped his eyes again. "This is something to sit on, not to eat! I just bought it."

The alien knocked him to the side. Spectral rays emanated from its eyes.

Edgar watched the mauve sofa lose its special brilliance. In seconds, the sofa was an impenetrable ebony.

Sated, the alien turned its baleful ray upon the groggy Edgar, who collapsed onto the black sofa.

Much later, Edgar awoke with a splitting headache. Wincing, he noted that the pitcher and his highball glass were both empty.

What an outrageous dream, he thought. His eyes widened with insight. Grabbing his notepad for tonight's philosophy meeting, he wrote,

One sees reality according to his use of it. Another sees it according to their use. The underlying reality is the same, but different uses make for distinct assessments.

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