The wooden table I always sit at

Catalogue of delights: 1

I am sitting at a café (so French and proper of me to include the accent over the e) that I frequently visit, a black coffee and The Book of Delights in hand. Ross Gay is a genius and delight. Every word of his makes me smile. (So wonderful that words can do such a thing!) I’d like to meet him and see the world through his eyes. His book is the next best option. Right now the sun is beaming through the window, windows I’ve gazed through countless times, as snow melts from the grooves of the rooftop above me. Who am I telling this to you ask? You, the precious table I always sit at. How many others have spilled coffee upon your surface? How many crumbs of biscuit and croissant have you yourself tasted, each colored by the mouth of tasty, chatty, quiet, solemn strangers, lovers and potential lovers, people with fates yet decided, all over your solid body, a catchall for leftovers and conversation and contemplation? Every day is new to you, even when it’s me and my crumbs again. Familiarity doesn’t scare you. All you need is attention, because despite all appearances, you are quite neglected, though it doesn’t make you too unhappy if you had to be honest, especially those split seconds when the barista is in the bathroom and the patrons are out and off to do something responsible with themselves (like work and taxes), leaving you to bask in the sun and silence, right until the door opens again and a stranger like me sits with you, perhaps to write out these exact thoughts, which are to be enjoyed over other surfaces, in beds, on screens, with coffee and a biscuit perhaps, over other wooden tables somewhere else in the world.