Table One
by Sara Clark
Genre: Romance
Swearwords: None.
Description: A couple meets for tea at the dying of an autumn day.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A couple meets for tea at the dying of an autumn day.
The spiderweb is trembling in the corner of the windowframe, a fragile sail spread soundlessly out against the glass. Through the eye of the web, a pivoting globe of dew reflects the café, catching the silent moment in its luminous, pearl-strung net.
She is unable to look at him directly, and her dark blue eyes scan the room for something her gaze can settle upon, a timid fly looking for a surface on which to rest. He pulls his chair closer, leaning across the table as if waiting for some magnetic impulse to draw them together. Between them, the sun places its warm palm upon the tabletop.
She struggles to hold the metal teapot still. A tremor in her hand allows the unsteady stream to spill beyond the convex pearl of the teacup, gathering in the saucer. Her nail varnish is chipping at the edges, and she has tried to disguise this under a new coat, leaving a thick ridge of green with a thinner veneer of turquoise beneath, like still water resting at the edge of a bank. He scrunches up a napkin, dabs earnestly at the mistake. His own nails are bitten to the quick, a pink ridge of skin emerging from each ragged crescent.
The door opens, closes again. The shifting of the sunlight through its window surprises him. As he checks his watch, the pale round moon of its reflection rises against a framed landscape, where it is briefly joined by the trembling constellation of her bracelet.
But they do not notice. He, with his eyes fixed to the shimmer of his watch; she, gazing as the milk pours an innumerable cosmos in the golden ocean of her tea. As the bubbling surface begins to overflow, he sops up once again the dark slow spread of spill, drops the napkin, sodden, beneath the table. Forgets it.
In the autumn, you can tell that days have reached their end, not when they fade, but when they glow. In the scratched, concentric circles of the windows, the mirrors, the long tall empty glasses, the searing remnants of the sun collect in pools. Portals of light are opening out, blooms of silver fire trembling to life above the watery panes of rising gold. The weave of dusk has cast its web among them, shadows stretching, fingertips which almost touch. Soon, the world will turn again, and bring together those silhouetted hands, but not yet.
She is unable to look at him directly, and her dark blue eyes scan the room for something her gaze can settle upon, a timid fly looking for a surface on which to rest. He pulls his chair closer, leaning across the table as if waiting for some magnetic impulse to draw them together. Between them, the sun places its warm palm upon the tabletop.
She struggles to hold the metal teapot still. A tremor in her hand allows the unsteady stream to spill beyond the convex pearl of the teacup, gathering in the saucer. Her nail varnish is chipping at the edges, and she has tried to disguise this under a new coat, leaving a thick ridge of green with a thinner veneer of turquoise beneath, like still water resting at the edge of a bank. He scrunches up a napkin, dabs earnestly at the mistake. His own nails are bitten to the quick, a pink ridge of skin emerging from each ragged crescent.
The door opens, closes again. The shifting of the sunlight through its window surprises him. As he checks his watch, the pale round moon of its reflection rises against a framed landscape, where it is briefly joined by the trembling constellation of her bracelet.
But they do not notice. He, with his eyes fixed to the shimmer of his watch; she, gazing as the milk pours an innumerable cosmos in the golden ocean of her tea. As the bubbling surface begins to overflow, he sops up once again the dark slow spread of spill, drops the napkin, sodden, beneath the table. Forgets it.
In the autumn, you can tell that days have reached their end, not when they fade, but when they glow. In the scratched, concentric circles of the windows, the mirrors, the long tall empty glasses, the searing remnants of the sun collect in pools. Portals of light are opening out, blooms of silver fire trembling to life above the watery panes of rising gold. The weave of dusk has cast its web among them, shadows stretching, fingertips which almost touch. Soon, the world will turn again, and bring together those silhouetted hands, but not yet.
About the Author
Sara Clark is a writer and poet based in the Scottish Borders. Her first novel, Summer's Lease, was released in 2015. She is also editor of literary mag, The Eildon Tree.