It was probably my fault for expecting that you had a delivery truck. I’d already paid for the solid beechwood table and we were left with no way to get it home. As I scrolled through my phone for any friend with a pick-up you cleared your throat from behind the counter. “You know, you could just borrow my dolly for a $20.00 deposit and wheel ‘er on back yourself.” I thought about the 16 blocks between your second-hand furniture store and my apartment carefully. Then I thought about how tired I was of eating off of my lap and getting ranch dressing on my pants.
We pushed and pulled the table down Commercial Drive. Small dogs with big eyes that grew even larger darted behind their owners as we passed. The old men with well-greased hair in front of the Italian coffee shop complimented the table’s finish and a young boy almost looked up from his iPad long enough to notice he was in the way.
We were starving by the time we got home and made dinner to christen the table with. I briefly thought about wheeling it back up the street to you when I stood to clear the dishes and saw an unimpeded splotch of ranch in the shape of Florida on my thigh.