It was a big decision. A luxury item for sure, especially with our table not five feet away, but with two of us writing or painting or searching through book pages, the table was feeling smaller and smaller. We found it waiting for us, carried it out the thrift store double doors, through the streets, and up into our fourth-story walk-up. True, we got some looks, though all told it was far lighter than many things I've had to carry that far.
Beat up and already-loved and discarded, we don't have to worry about pen marks on smooth wood or the ink of a leaking fountain pen. I would like to know the story behind this desk - where it's been and who kept what in its drawers. I will instead content myself with knowing that I will get to share in this part of its history. That I will get to watch the plays written on its surface brought alive and performed in the light. That I will find myself staring off out the window with my feet propped up on the bar underneath.