My daughter is waiting for me on the couch. She has built a nest: blankets, old and worn. A squashed pillow. They are crumpled on our couch, and she is waiting there.
This is what she wants: to crash into me, to slap her hands against my body, to press her face against my face, her warm, sour breath fogging my glasses. She wants me to catch her, to squeeze her until she squeals, so she can squirm loose…