They get up and leave, muttering about what they will do next as they circle, swirl. The cushion on the sofa, sitting, part of the furniture. You would not say anything to the cushion, not explain yourself, not invite the cushion to join in.
You can have a one to one relationship with a cushion, it is always going to be there for you, you can put it down & leave it and most times, unless someone else moved it, the cushion will be there for you when you get back. But why would you? Sure, it is comforting, it is nice to snuggle into, warm and enfolding. It won't complain if you are not there for a while, it won't seem any different to you if you haven't been there. Maybe a little colder to start with, like when you turn a pillow over, a refreshing coolness that disappears with your body warmth.
Group dynamics are interesting things. I sit as passive as a cushion, waiting. People display around me. I think about need. On one hand, I hate the cushion role, but then I also always hated the need to be of importance, of consequence, the ache to be noticed and appreciated. My whole persona comes from this need, sarcastic party girl with a (fading) work ethic. And it is not the right persona for me at the moment. It is the one people like, people relate to, if only they don't have to be reminded of the need beneath. Hell, I don't like to be reminded of it, so I am sure that no-one else does either.
You, you upset me when you suggest I should be looking out for someone else. You asked me if anyone took my fancy, on this weekend of like-soul finding. I was taken aback, I said it wasn't that sort of a weekend. And then I watched the others, who did find other souls. Maybe they had more soul to offer, to share, to attract. Mine, too closely associated with need, mine is too small to stand observation, too small to share. I need it, I want to have something left inside in case you would look my way again.
I make the breakfast, bake biscuits in the oven and my new role must be that of an enabler; a mother hen with no chicks of my own. I don't want chicks, I don't know whether people notice this or not. I am called an angel of mercy for doing the practical nurturing things and no-one sees that I need nurture too.
You tell me that you had a wonderful time last night, somewhere else in the world, far from me. We talk but it does not bring us closer today. The need is too close to the surface for me to cope with this. I think about how I could cut this off, but I know I won't; I need the emotional swings to make me feel alive, to at least let me know that I am not a cushion.