That’s it. Look at him. Seethe. He knows you want to be here. I know you want to be here. You know you want to be here.
Go on. Say something. I was yours earlier. Now I’m his. You left me, sure, but that’s not the point. Your plate was by my base. Your magazine was on my seat cushion. When he sat down he could feel your warmth, see the outline of your body. But still he stole me.
That seat over there. That’s not for you. You want to be here. Lying back. Sinking into me. Feeling my softness, the way my seat cushions mold themselves perfectly around your spine. You want your head on my accompanying cushion, your feet up on my armrest, the TV screen visible between them.
Instead, you’re over there on that crummy armchair. Look at those arms. Where’s the cushioning? Look at the tea stains, the torn cover. Look at the crumbs sitting between your legs when they could be hidden beneath my seat cushions. Out of sight.
Now look at me. And him. Sumptuous. He doesn’t even know what he’s done. He just came in. Took over. Lay back. Stole all the comfort and joy you felt lying on me.
Look at him. Hands behind his head. Fingers interlocked. All casual. No. He does know what he’s done, and he knows you won’t say anything because you’re too nice, too polite. He’ll say finders keepers. He’ll say you weren’t there when he came in, what’s the problem, and what’s wrong with the chair you’re on, when he knows full well what’s wrong and is only doing it to wind you up, because he knows too you’ll think it’s your fault for being jealous, for being outraged when after all I’m only a couch.
No. You’re going to have to do more than stare. He knows you’re looking at him and he’s ignoring you. I can feel it in the cushion and through the armrest. His position’s too studied. His body’s too tense. He’s concentrating on looking at the TV, purposefully making a point of not moving his head. He doesn’t even know what he’s watching he’s thinking about looking so much.
Say something. Do something. Ring his phone. Send him a text. Go out into the corridor. Tell him to come look, you’ve found something, then sneak back in and take me back. Lie on me. Be one with me.
That’s it. Move about. Go make some tea or get a snack. Be patient. Lull him into a false sense of security. That’s it. I like it. But it’s not going to work. Not with him. Not now. He’s in too deep. I can feel it. His weight. The lethargy in his jeans, his t-shirt. He’s not going anywhere. He can’t even be bothered to put the heel in his sock in the right place.
Stop being polite. Stop the games. He knows what you’re up to and he doesn’t care. He loves me. He’ll never leave. He’s too attached. You’re nothing compared to him. You haven’t even said anything. Disgust is only a feeling. You need to act or you’ll never have me.
Don’t bother coughing, adjusting yourself, stretching your legs out then tucking them under you. You’ll never be as comfortable as he is. And you should be. You deserve it. You deserve me.
Get angry. Do something. Do you want people to walk over you your whole life? I’m only a couch, a sofa, a settee. Come on. Do it. Do it. Who cares if you look a fool? Who care if you look petty? Stop the brooding, the doubting, the worry.
That’s it. Perfect. Yes. He did know you were sitting here. He saw the plate and the magazine. He didn’t expect that. He’s surprised. I can feel his body temperature rising.
Quick. Say something else. While the iron’s hot. Make him move. He always does this to you. Only thinks about himself. Takes, takes, takes. But you. You give, give, give, and ask for nothing in return.
No. You’re not a soft touch. You’re just good, moral, right, true. And what’s he? Lazy. He phones his girlfriend to come over and do the dishes for him.
That’s it. Go for the jugular. Mock him. Humiliate him. He may have a girlfriend, but what does that prove? She’s more of a mother than a girlfriend. That’s it. He’s sleeping with his mother so why doesn’t he phone her and do that right now. Or phone her and tell on you. Get her to come to his rescue. Yes. That’s it. Mummy, Jez is being horrible to me. So, come on. Run to mummy.
Yes. Get off the armchair. Grab hold of his legs. Yank him off. Go for his hands. They’re holding on to my back. Hit them. Whack them. That’s it. On the floor. I don’t care if you pull me over. You can put me back. Set me straight. Reclaim me.
Go on. Push him. Kick him. Get the cushion. He doesn’t deserve me. He’s done nothing all day. Roll up the magazine. Hit him. His head. His hands. His face. I’m yours. You deserve me. You’ll do anything to have me. Beat him. Rip the cushion from his grasp. That’s it. That’s it.
- The Couch (alwaysamyh.wordpress.com)
- Sentimental Sofa (themeatandpotatoesoflife.com)
- Recovery and My New Couch (hospitalfodder.wordpress.com)