It’s too bad that tables don’t talk. If they did, you’d have had the chance to meet a rather interesting one, tucked away in the corner of a cosy café in the city where nothing ever happens. It is the storyteller of the highest order for it has seen them happen across its life. They say once it begins, it doesn’t stop talking.
It would tell you a story it watched unfold over the years. It would narrate it as if it was some epic saga of love and heartbreak and of all things petty humans cannot control. It would go on and on because there was so much to tell. It would tell you about the two of them.
It would tell you of the most amazing events from the most random of days, and it would tell you of smiles exchanged. It would narrate and never get tired of how it felt that love transpire. It would tell you of all it saw and sometimes, it’d add its own touch to it. It has, of course, seen thousands of these.
It would tell you how they met once a year, then every day, and then never again. The table would talk, and talk, and talk about how he saw them grow up and saw them grow closer, and of course, apart. It would start from the first, awkward sips of coffee to the last silence as they sat with tears in their eyes.
It would tell you how both of them kept visiting for some time, alone, right before they stopped. It would tell you of when they finally came back to the café, after years and not together, of course. It would talk of its excitement when it saw them, and the disappointment it felt when they both walked up to it, but never chose it again.
If you chose it, though, and if it could talk, it would never stop talking. It would have so much to tell you about them — about us. Alas, it’s a story I won’t tell because, perhaps, it’s a story they’ve long forgotten. It makes me think of how it’s too bad that tables don’t talk. It makes me wonder if that is how stories are lost through time.