The sofa was worn. In a style that could only be described as vintage and as faded a pink as clothing washed by a person who clearly does not understand the usage of bleach, the sofa definitely had a long life. It was worn and old. Large safety pins held the casings of the cushions closed and there were many scratches on the now dull polish. From drink spills to throw up, the sofa had seen much. It was worn, old and had experienced everything there was to experience - as far as sofas go.
But this was new.
Although the concept of the passage of time was beyond the sofa's ability to understand, it was used to routine. It understood how different events or cues would determine the number of masses that would rest their weight upon it. The masses were damned messy, and while they themselves never stayed long, some of the items they carried did. The sofa understood that whatever the masses brought with them, clutched in their mostly unreliable appendages had a chance of being left on its cushions. The sofa never minded if it was a book - it liked a good read - and the book bags were not that heavy. However, it dreaded liquids and crumbs. Especially the liquids and crumbs that were never properly cleaned up.
Yes, it was a sort of bliss when the masses were not around.
The "sitting" they did was perpetual pressure on the sofa - a tension headache of sorts. All the sofa could do was wait patiently until its body became used to the pressure. It was never really that awful, and if the sofa could be honest with itself, it would admit it loved the rush of euphoria associated with the masses leaving their seat on its cushions. The relief was addicting and most pleasurable.
But this was new.
The masses never stayed long. Never. The longest a mass had stayed was the length of four "Big Bang Theories", and even then the mass had gotten up periodically to bring back more detestable "snacks" and once to initiate a flushing sound somewhere down the hall.
This was definitely new.
Since the beginning of a new cycle for the masses (five times mostly outside and two times mostly inside) there has been one mass that would plant itself on the sofa for obscene lengths of time. Way more than four "Big Bang Theories"!
The strange mass always took the same position on the far left of the sofa and hardly moved much less get up. The first time this occurred, the sofa thought nothing of it. There were times when a mass or two disrupt the pattern of the cycle. The second time was when the sofa gave it a bit more thought. Was there something wrong with the mass?
The sofa was getting an ache from the constant weight of the mass. The moments when the mass got up to initiate the flushing sound were more painful than euphoric. The mass had created a dent in the stuffing of the cushion and every time the mass rose, the stuffing slowly and most excruciatingly tried to shift back to normal only to be compressed again when the mass returned. The mass must have also been in a state of discomfort if the unsettling creaking of the joints whenever it stretched was anything to go by.
The sofa figured the situation could be more bearable if the mass at least turned on the talking box, but it never did. The mass just SAT THERE. Even when the other masses returned from the outside, the mass just SAT THERE.
The sofa knew deep down in its stuffing that it had to do something.
It had to do something.