originally written on March 1st '06

The lady at the furniture store didn't seem all that happy to see him as he walked in the door. Dirty pants, dirty jacket, and a dirty face; all he wanted was a dining room table.
"Can I help you?" she asked, a hint of disgust flavoring her voice.
He looked at the saleslady for a long while before he slowly answered in the affirmative. "I was wondering if you have any tables here for cheap."
Her Face fell a little at those last little words. They weren't much, but they told her volumes.
"I have a couple. Here, this one is pretty cheap" she said as she led him to the back room, revealing a table that lookied as if it had survived a tornado. "Is this what you're looking for?"
He didn't answer her right away. He was too busy with the table. Running his hands along the oak wood he could feel its cuts and scrapes, its blemishes and imperfections. He could tell that, once, long ago, this had been a wonderful table. It had stood proudly in someone's dining room, beautifully adorned with the finest silver and the most expensive china, wonderful feasts piled high upon the platters. Even now the wood warmed to his touch. The scratches and the bangs and the indents all badges of service. Each a remnant of a fine meal proudly served to the patrons.
"This is quite the table" he said after a long pause.
"yeah, it is. It used to be owned by the Byrons, but they got a new one a few years back to replace it, and I've had it ever since. At first I thought that it would sell in a flash, but as time went on I realized that this table wasn't just for anyone. It needs someone with character, with a past. This table is for someone with history."
She kept droning on, giving her sales talk to him, but he wasn't listening. He was too busy noticing how old she looked, her face starting to wrinkle and her blonde hair had a touch of gray in it. Her eyes had lost a lot of the sparkle they had once had, and her nose had started to droop.
Then it hit him.
Her jacket. It wasn't right. It was too new. Too red. Too festive and colorful and full of life. It didn't look right on her. She was too old and too dead. It didn't look right in this furniture shop. The couches and chairs and tables and lamps and desks and beds were too used and dusty. Her jacket was like a fire burning alone in the dark night. It just didn't fit in this gray and dirty shop.
She was still talking. Droning on about the quality of the wood and a lifetime guarantee. The facts and figures about this table that only a salesperson would ever bring up. He couldn't get over her jacket.
She caught his eyes for just a moment, and in so doing caused her to pause for just a second. She looked away sheepishly and smiled a little half smile before looking back at him again. For the first time in a long time she was at a loss for words.
"So what do you think of the table?" she asked.