That back seat!  The one that holds two, but holds only one when there is no two.  The front seats, the driver’s and the passenger’s, hold the husband and the wife.  The back seat holds the husband’s and wife’s friend.  The friend goes to dinner with them.  Or to a church event, or a play, or anywhere they kindly invite her.

This is the part of single life the friend dreaded since the day she became just one.  It will be awkward.  It will be third-wheelish.  It will be lopsided.  It will be so I-wish-I-were-anywhere-elseish.  As the husband and wife talk about sharing an entree.  As the husband and wife hold hands across the console.  As the wife drums up the next question for the friend in the back seat.

Bless them.  They want to do the right thing.  They want to invite and include and carry on the sweet friendship.  They don’t want to trigger emotions, or say something unfitting, or fumble… like they’re doing.  They only want to help.

The friend knows that, and so she determines to put them at ease.  As at ease as two in the front seat and one in the back seat can be.  She stuffs emotions in the trunk for now, she mentions her upcoming trip, she even recalls an antic about the husband who would have sat in the empty seat.  She hopes this will relieve them.  They are doing the right thing, a good thing.

But that back seat!  That half-filled booth, half-filled Ferris wheel, half-filled chair lift, half-filled kayak, half filled porch swing.  The ones that hold two but holds only one when there is no two.  They just don’t know what to do about it.  They don’t know how to fill the seat or how to leave it empty either.  They hope that somehow they’ll adapt with grace.  They hope the one will fit in just fine.  They count on time and prayer to ease the two in the front seats and the one in the back seat.