Antechoir

She calls it preaching to the choir. Says she's sitting front row center and she knows exactly how I feel. But she's not only in the front, she's in the antechoir, the front of the front, first in line like always, best view, brightest smile. It's not a spite, merely a fact: she doesn't know how I feel. She has no idea, and how could she? Because while the back of my thighs stick to the cheap plastic chairs, she's sitting on plush velvet cushions, fat with the softest stuffing.