Act I

I’m in the park. My route is obstructed by a large table and many chairs. The table is made of oak or granite or glass. It sits in my path. If I took my usual route I’d have to walk straight over it. Right through it. It’s vast and heavy. I imagine its legs have already sunk into the earth. The sun sits low; its light drips over this table like an 80s chandelier. There is a symmetry to this vista. The table is ensconced in an avenue of trees or dilapidated walls or stained glass, cocooned and calm but porous to noise: traffic and a children’s play park and a football match and a woman screaming down a phone at a friend, her lover, her unruly offspring. The sun filters through and different hues dance on the table top and blind my eyes. I’m busy but I’ve stopped, and I run my finger softly over it. Its surface, as smooth as a mirror, seems to form a meniscus around my fingers and just for a moment I’m not sure where it begins and I end.

Act II

It’s raining; the moon casts a sheen on the surface of the table. It looks black like a scarab beetle. The trees farther off in the dim light are abstract symbols inscribing the environment, a giant cartouche. I consider whether it’s meant to be deciphered. Wet leaves cover the seats of the chairs and I remove them all, carefully, before I crawl under the table to take shelter from the rain.

Act III

An elderly woman gives me a smile of recognition because I’ve been watching her. She sits outside amongst other women; they are giving each other manicures and pedicures, exfoliating elbows, and massaging temples. The table is covered with half-filled bottles of lotions, potions, and lacquer. The empty chair beside her is an invitation. I sit. The chair feels like a throne; so large, so regal. I hug my knees to my chest. She slowly brushes my hair. I feel her connected to every tug and tingle of my scalp. The birdsong we hear reminds her of something; tears fill her eyes. I stand up and cover her ears with my hands.

Act IV

I think it’s day and night and day again. I’m a little farther off and I feel them before I eventually see them. Like many before them they were going somewhere and stopped there. They have been up all night and are smashed on this and that.  They have tinny-sounding tunes playing on their mobile phones, filling the relative silence of this outdoor place, and I know this frisson and I smile so hard. A blond girl with an asymmetrical haircut attempts to lead a choreography; she is intent, but keeps forgetting what she’s just taught. It doesn’t matter because we are on that table, bare feet on that cool surface, doing that dance, all of us, at least I think we are. It feels very much like we are.