I’m sharing a large coffeeshop table with four other people.
I read, take a sip of water, then shift my weight against the table because my leg is falling asleep.
The table moves three inches.
I jerk up, imagining the damage:
- a meticulous hand-drawn design, nearly complete after hours of work, now destroyed with a thick ink line diagonally through the center
- the only copy of a last letter from a dearly departed parent, now covered in coffee (which may have also made it onto the lap of the reader)
- a child close to the table, now on the floor, clutching the hip that hit a chair on the way down
I look around, eyes wide, ready to apologize.
No one else noticed.
Send me emails like this, Ophira!
This Glass Has Water 