there’s a thing about uncleared tables at restaurants, right after the people leave,
when the residue left in coffee cups have not hardened yet, when the water glasses have lipstick stains, all the tissues dabbed with words littering the table, the bottles half empty, the dishes smeared in sauce, the forks and spoons in disarray.
there’s so much personality in it, in the mess, in the imperfection, in the little bits left behind. the table wood must have heard so many secrets and gossip and laughter. the chairs could have cupped shaking backs of amused friends and felt every tremor when they spilled happiness into each other’s laps. the ice cubes would have melted in the heat of all those moments combined.
there’s a thing about uncleared tables at restaurants screaming with proof of encounters well lived and for that, my heart will always find room to carve out a special place for it.