Page 36 of The Turning of the Tables

Fuck.

How do carpenters talk about anything?

:D

Are you startingfrom tree, or from furniture?

Furniture?

What kind?

A chair.

Could you be any more specific?

A dining chair.

Are you trying to identify one you have or…?

Yeah.

I want to figure out what it is.

So I can fix it.

Maybe you should send me a picture.

I senthim a picture of the now-broken chair in the kitchen.

I had been trying to get something off the top of the cabinet and had stood on one of Noah’s wooden dining chairs—there were three, each of which tucked around the tiny little kitchen table that we used when we were feeling fancy enough to sit at a table instead of on the couches like the slobs we normally were.

I was now also nursing a lump on the back of my head from hitting said table when the chair gave out under me. Noah had not helped because he was working late.

Did you hit a burglar with it?

No.

I was standing on it.

You are aware that chairs are for sitting, right?

I needed something off the top cupboard.

And your giant ass couldn’t reach it?

Obviously not or I wouldn’t have been on the chair.

The phone rang.

I looked down at it, startled. Elliot was calling me.

“Hi,” I said stupidly.

“I can’t see anything useful from that picture,” he told me, his rough baritone sending funny little squiggles through my stomach. “What broke?”

“One of the legs. Like it… came out?”

“Show me?”