Dance Hall
When I moved out, I took the kitchen table a week early. He and I ate dinner at the chairs right where we’d left them, facing each other, crossing our legs and leaning back away from that old table. Someone was checking on us, though, and in a few days, the garbage had emptied and the chairs removed to the sides of the room as in a dance hall, the kind where you sit along a wall until you’re asked. If ever asked, I’m sure that I refused.
