The Table
The table had come with the house and would leave with the house, said the agent, but Meera had already decided otherwise. It was oak, scarred, too big for the room. A previous family had measured their children on one leg, in pencil.
She spent the winter at it. Not working. Eating. She learned that bread tastes different at a table that has fed forty years of people, that soup stays warmer in a bowl you have chosen, that a Tuesday becomes an occasion with one candle and a refusal to hurry.
Her sister visited in March and watched her cut a pear into eight equal pieces, an act of such slow tenderness that she finally said, “You’ve changed.”
“Have I?”
“You used to eat standing up.”
Meera passed her a slice. Outside, rain began on the new leaves, softly, as if it also had nowhere to be.
In April the agent phoned about an offer from the developers. She listened, thanked him, and said no, kindly, the way you decline something generous that you simply do not need.
Then she went back to the pear. There was a lot of afternoon left, and she meant to use all of it.
Invented. No real person is described, and the story is not a portrait of anyone born under this sign.