Margen
The show flat on the corner lights up by itself at eight. Behind the glass there is a table set for three: a fake steaming soup tureen, plastic bread, a bottle nobody ever uncorks. I walk past every night on my way home from work and I know the set by heart.
In March, the tureen turned up at the other end of the table. In April a chair was missing, pulled back as if someone had got up to fetch something. In May there were crumpled napkins beside the plates. The estate agency only opens on Saturday mornings; the dust on the doormat has sat untouched for a year.
Last night the table had been cleared. Three coffee cups stood on the tablecloth and, on the inside of the glass, there was fresh breath-mist at the height of a mouth.
Today they put up the SOLD sign. I wonder who will move in. And whether anyone will tell them that in that flat dinner is served at eight — and that the dinner is already onto coffee.