It’s the heart of our kitchen — an ordinary table, made of sturdy pine boards, solidly joined, built to last. Though it’s scarred and scratched, Norma says she likes it that way; she wants to read our history on it, the way you read the lines on someone’s face.
The table is the mirror of our domestic order, and disorder: the meals we eat with our mismatched silver; the children doing homework; Norma kneading and pounding dough into bread; the late-night talks about the uncertain future; the games of backgammon and chess. It’s where we gather with friends, as we did recently: we were finishing dinner, the kitchen rich with the mingled aromas of garlic, oil, the wood fire in the next room, the children’s freshly-washed hair, all the smells that belonged to the house as we belonged to each other; family and friends talking and laughing, a circle of human warmth in the darkness of a winter night — when the talk, unexpectedly, turned into a discussion; and then, with unmistakable emphasis, into an argument; and then, dismayingly, into an argument about arguing itself.
