It’s all my fault. I’ve always been a bit partial to furniture, collecting the family’s antiques and such and developing a strong sentimental relationship with them. Other furniture items weren’t so special, admittedly, acquired strictly for functional purposes, but now that’s all changed. I’ve become best friends with my breakfast table.

For hours at a time, nearly any given time, I sit at my table drinking beer and coffee, sometimes consuming snacks, and talk to it. It’s a great listener, as a table obviously would be, but it’s also an excellent conversationalist, and quite the little storyteller, too. It’s recited oh so many intriguing stories of its existence, from construction to resale, and it keeps even my highly distractible mind enraptured. Its history is fascinating, and it’s not even an antique yet! Thus, I feel impelled to share a few excerpts.

It all started very romantically in 1965 with a love affair between the baker’s rack and the oven. Right under the noses of the homeowners, twins were born – a coffee table and my beloved breakfast table. The owners weren’t sure what to do. The tables were lovely, but they already had a dining table and an entire living room suite. They tried to find places for the new additions, but found themselves tripping over them far too regularly. Finally, they decided to sell.

The tables were purchased and shipped south, and luckily found a home together. They were glad not to be separated, as this is always hard on twins, even fraternal. The breakfast table looked after the moments-younger coffee table, and together they became the basis for a young couple’s home décor. For years, they happily showed off their beauty and functionality, and always made sure the couple would be proud to have guests over.

But alas, hard times befell the poor people, and they were forced to sell much of their belongings to pay debts. The coffee table went to a local college hangout and the breakfast table to a pool hall. Heartbroken, but not to be deterred, the breakfast table carried on, fulfilling its dining and drinking duties and praying each day for its brother’s well-being.

That’s where I met it. I was bored, and it was too early for the clubs, so I picked a random drinking establishment out of the phone book and went. I sat down at a table and ordered a pint. I didn’t have a billiards partner, so I just sat and watched hockey on the big screen tv for a while. It was then that I heard it.

“Hey, how are ya?”

I looked around, but no one was there. Perplexed, I glanced about once more, then went back to my beverage and game.

“Hey! I know you heard me.”

What the…? Again, no one was in my vicinity, not even a waitress. Then he buckled a leg to get my attention, nearly spilling my beer.

“I like to get to know my patrons. How are ya?”

I stared at the table. “Are you talking?” Quick darting glances to make sure no one else heard or saw me talking to a table.

“Of course I’m talking. The waitress’ voice isn’t this deep, ya know?”

Cripes. I must have had a stroke or something. I’m nuts! “Are you possessed or something?” I whispered. It claimed it wasn’t, just a little maddened by separation from its family. “Do you talk to everyone?”

“Yeah. Most don’t hear me, though…I guess the jukebox is too loud.”

I asked it why and how it talked, and it repeated its line about knowing its patrons and added, “It’s just a gift I have. No big deal.”

I found this curiously fascinating, not only because I was sitting before talking furniture, but also because its tone was that of a caring bit of assembled wood, and far humbler than I’d expect from such a unique piece. Quietly, carefully, I spoke with it, a little wary and only divulging public information about myself, and listening to its life tales. It loved to tell me about itself, loved the idea of finally getting a chance to show a human the furniture perspective.

I became addicted to its stories, and made it a point to visit the table often. I grew quite fond of it, and I now consider it my new best friend. I’ve even let it into my own life a little, and that’s something special for furniture that doesn’t live in my own home. It’s led quite a full life, not the half of which can be cited here in this writeup, but if you look hard enough, you might spot one of its own nodes (yes, it can write, too!).

Don’t look so surprised, I'm not really that crazy. If my breakfast table can write, learned during its current occupation, while being carved into, you can never know whether you’re reading a furniture-composed node at any given time. It can happen.

In the meantime, the next time you visit your favorite evening establishment, take a moment to acknowledge and respect your table or bar. Its life may have been more interesting than yours, and probably is.

Okay, so the story itself is mostly fabricated, but the breakfast table does frequent E2.

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