Nothing Wrong With That

Graham drove me home in his van because of the table. That was a result because it could not have been windier and I hate cycling in the wind. The table was only small but it was going to look sweet in the entrance, I knew that much. I left my bike outside and carried the table in, holding the top, four legs pointing forward, while Graham held the door open. "The fuck's that?" He asked pointing his head at the black car. Graham had driven me home many times before and that car had never been there.

"Fuck knows," I told him truthfully.

I then positioned the table in the place where I'd been imagining placing the table ever since I'd seen it. It was like the fulfilment of a dream. That sounds too much. I don't mean it was my dream to get a table, I just mean I'd been thinking about placing the table and when I placed the table it was a daydream come true.

"There's nothing wrong with that," I said adjusting the position on the table slightly so that one bicycle could fit on either side of it and that was taking into account the opening of the door. The lights in the hall went off and because they're on a timer and so I pressed the switch again.  My bike was going to go to the right of the table while looking at it, this would mean my bike was further inside. Both would be inside but mine would be further inside. Further from the door. It just seemed better that way.

"That looks boss!" Said Graham.

"It does, eh?" I agreed. We stood and looked at the table. "Wait there," I told him and brought my bike in. It fitted perfectly between the table and under the return of the staircase. "Look at fucking that!" I said. We looked at it some more.

"Might get a vase?" I said thinking out loud.

"A vase on that table would look gear," said Graham agreeing with my thought. The lights went off and I pressed the switch again.

"Or a big bowl," I said, that had been my other thought. A big bowl, like a fruit bowl. I wouldn't put fruit in it though much like I wouldn't put flowers in the vase. Graham didn't respond to my second thought. "A bowl," I said and looked at him. He was standing with his arms straight by his side, his eyes closed, his nostrils flaring with each breath and he was clenching and unclenching his fists. That's a tell-tale sign Graham is about to lose it. "No, a vase!" I shouted and he came back to me. "Yeah, a vase for sure."

"Definitely a vase," said Graham. "Not a bowl. What would you put in a... friggin' bowl?" Graham was staring at me. At least his eyes were open but he hadn't fully regained his composure. His question was pointed.

"Nothing, that was stupid. A fucking bowl," I shook my head at my own stupidity. "A vase."

"Yeah, a vase would be nice. You could get some of those..." Graham made a hand gesturing that looked like he was lifting noodles from a pan, "twigs."

"Oh yeah, those twigs."

"Don't have to water them," said Graham whose surname, going on his horticultural knowledge, might well be Monty Don. It's not. I forget what it is though.

"No, those twigs look great," I said and we both stood there and pictured a vase on the table. The one I pictured was Art Deco but the one Graham was picturing was red and white and said LFC RULE OK. "Are they just normal twigs?" I asked. "Or are they, you know, treated with something?"

"They're dried," said Graham but I suspected he didn't really know the answer. Just from his delivery I picked that up but I nodded. We stood a while longer. The lights went off and I turned them back on.

"Cheers for that," I told Graham. "See you on Monday, yeah."

"Have a good one, la," said Graham still looking at the table.

"Look for a vase next week."

"Deffo," he said and then turning to me a fixing me with his eyes he warned, "not a bowl."

"Fuck no," I replied. When he left I went up the stairs two at a time I got to my door before the lights clicked off again.