They’d move to the suburbs after a couple of years; the table, too small to accommodate their growing family,
passes on to a cousin newly graduated and furnishing his first flat on a budget.
After a few years, he moves in with his partner and rents the place out.
For a decade, tenants eat here, a whole procession of them, young people mainly, sad and happy, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends, lovers.
They’d serve fast food here to fill a gap, or five stylish courses to seduce, carbohydrates before a run and chocolate pudding for broken hearts.
Eventually, the cousin sells up and the house clearance people take the table away.
It languishes in a warehouse, spiders spinning silk inside its unfashionable rounded corners, bluebottles laying eggs in the rough splinters.
It’s given to another charity. They gave it to me, unloved, unwanted, irreparably damaged. Also the table.
The things are all laid out. Painkillers (twelve packets of twenty-four tablets, prescribed and carefully hoarded);
bread knife (hardly used, shark’s teeth ready to bite);
drain cleaner (“cuts through all blockages, even hair and grease”—also flesh and internal organs).
This table, this table where I have never sat with another person and shared a bottle of wine.
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