The table had been there longer than any of them.
It had learned not to expect permanence from the people who sat around it.
They arrived.
They settled.
They placed things on its surface.
They left.
The table remained.
At two seventeen, Professor Quillibrace arrived.
The chair received him.
The table received his book.
The book was opened.
For six minutes, nothing happened.
The chair knew this was not unusual.
At two twenty-three, Mr Blottisham arrived.
The second chair received him less quietly.
The floor complained briefly beneath it.
Papers were placed on the table.
Many papers.
The table had supported heavier things.
It did not object.
Mr Blottisham arranged the papers.
Then rearranged them.
Then arranged them again.
The table knew this pattern.
At two thirty-one, Miss Stray arrived.
Her chair was moved only once.
She placed a notebook on the table.
She did not open it.
The table noticed this.
The table noticed many things.
It noticed where people sat.
It noticed which objects were placed near the edge.
It noticed who moved things and who preferred that things remain where they were.
It had learned, over the years, that books were usually treated with greater care than cups.
Papers were treated with greater anxiety than books.
Pens were trusted too much.
And tea was almost always spilled eventually.
At two forty-seven, Professor Quillibrace stood.
The chair rose slightly beneath him and then returned to its position.
The book disappeared.
The teapot disappeared.
The table was briefly less crowded.
Mr Blottisham moved his papers into the empty space.
The table welcomed the additional weight.
Miss Stray watched.
Mr Blottisham moved the papers back.
The table did not take sides.
It had supported many sides.
At two fifty-one, the teapot returned.
The cups followed.
Three cups.
Three places.
The table knew them by the marks they had left over the years.
One place was often ringed with tea.
One was usually dry.
One varied.
The furniture had no difficulty distinguishing them.
At three twelve, the door opened.
The chairs remained occupied.
The table remained occupied.
No one entered.
The door closed.
The room returned to its previous arrangement.
At three nineteen, Mr Blottisham leaned forward.
The table received his weight.
He pointed to a sheet of paper.
Professor Quillibrace looked at it.
The paper was turned around.
It slid across the table.
Then it moved three centimetres to the left.
The table noticed the movement.
It had supported many corrections.
Most were larger.
Some were smaller.
Three centimetres was not unusual.
Mr Blottisham leaned back.
The paper remained where Professor Quillibrace had put it.
The table wondered, if tables could wonder, why people so often moved things only to leave them there.
But the table had been a table for a long time.
It did not need to understand everything that happened upon it.
At three thirty-six, Miss Stray closed her notebook.
Her hand remained upon it.
The table felt the pressure.
She looked at the cups.
At the papers.
At the book.
At the chairs.
The table had nothing to offer.
It had always been there.
At three forty-one, Mr Blottisham left.
His chair was empty.
The table was relieved of the papers.
The room became larger.
At three forty-six, Professor Quillibrace left.
His chair was empty.
Miss Stray remained.
For a while, nothing was placed upon the table.
Then she stood.
She moved one chair.
Then another.
Then her own.
The table felt each movement through the floor.
The arrangement changed.
The table had seen this before.
People often believed they were arranging chairs.
Usually they were arranging something else.
At four o'clock, everyone had gone.
The room was quiet.
The chairs stood around the table.
The cups remained.
One sheet of paper lay near the middle.
Blank.
The table held it.
The chairs held the empty space where the three had been.
The bookshelves held their books.
The carpet held the chairs.
The walls held the room.
The room held the silence.
The furniture had no idea what had been discussed that afternoon.
It had heard nothing.
It had understood nothing.
It had not needed to.
It had supported every movement.
Every hesitation.
Every adjustment.
Every departure.
Tomorrow they would return.
They would sit again.
They would place their things on the table.
They would move the chairs.
They would leave.
The table would remain.
It always did.
At least until someone decided that the furniture needed replacing.
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