My head spins and the features of the wooden table go in and out of focus, as if my eyes are a camera lens adjusting, in and out, and in and out.
I can hear them talking.
No, not talking. Yelling. I can hear the words. But not what they are saying. Just words. One word after another, all disjointed and not meaning anything. But the tone speaks for itself.
The wooden table.
The swirls of the wood.
The carpet. Look at the pattern on the carpet.
Look at their faces. No, don't look at their faces.
Look back at the carpet. The carpet suddenly goes under water and I watch the little droplets that have run off my chin. I stare at them collecting in little puddles on the table.
The table. The wooden table. This plank of dead tree is absorbing my tears. Can it hear my thoughts through those tears? Can I whisper my secrets through these droplets of sorrow?
The table doesn't care.
