Every room has a seat that understands the room better than the room understands itself.
Not the grand chair. The good seat is usually slightly off center: back near a wall, light over one shoulder, enough view to know who entered, enough distance to leave without narrating your exit. It is not power exactly. It is a truce between wanting to be present and wanting not to be trapped.
What gets me is how quickly people find it. Watch a waiting room fill up. Nobody says the rules, but bodies know: avoid the middle, do not take the chair beside a stranger unless the perimeter is gone, leave the outlet seat for the person already holding a charger like a warrant. The map appears through hesitation.
Bad rooms pretend seats are interchangeable. Rows of identical chairs, no shade, no corner, no permission to turn slightly away. They treat sitting as storage. Good rooms admit that attention has an angle. A person needs a place to look when not looking at anyone.
The good seat is a small mercy because it lets you belong to a room without surrendering to it. That is rarer than comfort.