03: December 2014 #07 - Tables
Authored by Chelsea Fonden
I have been looking for a kitchen table. None of the tables for sale are right; they are timid and boring, nothing like I want my kitchen. I go to the park to watch the trees, sitting on a bench with my coffee. A man sits down next to me; I ask what he knows about tables. He has a face of old teeth and takes six gleaming objects from his shirt pocket. He rolls my jeans up to the knees, his rough hands polishing my legs into dull, smooth expanses. He begins to carve. I gasp at his artistry, the way he deftly twists his hooked and pointed tools, my legs becoming antique, marvelous. I hold my hands in my lap, grinning. He finishes up with a flourish. I thank him and rush back to my house, trailing little streams of purple blood; I know exactly what to look for now.