WHITE WASH COFFEE TABLE : WHITE WASH

White wash coffee table : Small black end table : White breakfast table.

White Wash Coffee Table


white wash coffee table
    coffee table
  • A low table, typically placed in front of a sofa
  • low table where magazines can be placed and coffee or cocktails are served
  • A coffee table, also called a cocktail table, is a style of long, low table which is designed to be placed in front of a sofa, to support beverages (hence the name), magazines, feet, books (especially coffee table books), and other small items to be used while sitting, such as coasters.
  • (Coffee Tables) While any small and low table can be, and is, called a coffee table, the term is applied particularly to the sets of three or four tables made from about 1790; of which the latter were called 'quartetto tables'.
    white wash
  • Try to clear (someone or their name) by deliberately concealing their mistakes or faults
  • Whitewash, or calcimine, kalsomine, or calsomine is a very low cost type of paint made from slaked lime (calcium hydroxide) and chalk (whiting). Various other additives have also been used. The incident with Tom Sawyer whitewashing a fence as punishment is a famous image in American literature.
  • Deliberately conceal (someone's mistakes or faults)
  • the foam that forms after a wave a broken
  • Paint (a wall, building, or room) with whitewash
  • This is the turbulent water that is found to be present in the dead center of two converging wakes. The wake itself is capable of containing whitewash, making it difficult for the wake to have hit.

It was 6:30 in the morning and a Friday when my father woke me up. I didn't sleep until three last night. That's been the normal routine since the end of May. I suffer from severe insomnia and it gets dark outside much earlier these days. He was standing in my doorway and shouting my name. "I spilled coffee in the kitchen. Hurry and come downstairs to clean it up before the ants get there, I have to leave for work," he said. I was dreaming when he woke me up. I had a feeling that I had just reached the climax of my dream and she was about to say something so significant that it would stay with me long into my waking hours, but before she could, this is what I got instead, "I spilled coffee in the kitchen, hurry, before the ants come." "Can't you just clean it up with a rag?" I said. "It's all over the place, just hurry up and get downstairs before there's ants everywhere. I'm going to be late." I waved him off and put on a sweater. It was cold and like clock-work for this time of month, there were sheets of rain outside. There were two floor towels by the bottom legs of the kitchen table, our dining table. A dish rag on the white tiles of its surface and another dish rag underneath the faucet in the sink. The faucet was turned all the way to the left a long tail of steam was rising from it. Everything was pushed to one side of the table - a plate full of scrambled eggs and Chinese sausages, a plastic packet of sliced oven-roasted turkey breast, two slices of bread, and a bottle of ketchup and a cereal box. My father stood over the puddle towards the middle edge. There was coffee on the floor and in the tracks of the sliding glass door. There was a dark stain on the fabric of one of the chairs. There were splatters on the glass and along the vertical window blinds peeled away next to it. "Fuck you ah," my father mumbled and repeated, in English and in Chinese. "Are you sure there's just one cup?" I said. "Yeah," he said. "But how come there's so much?" "I said it was just one cup. I spilled the entire cup!" I looked around to see if there were any remains of our coffee mugs. "Just calm down. I'll clean it up." He washed his hands at the sink and wiped them on the back of his black jeans. He took his jacket off the hanger by the garage entrance. I put a hand on his shoulder, "Calm down and drive safe," I said, "It's raining outside." "Tell Judy I made her a sandwich to bring to school," he said. 6:40 on the clock, I can't remember the last time I woke up this early on a day without any work. I thought I'd be tired and sleepy, but I wasn't. I thought I'd be irritated and moody, especially by my father, but I wasn't. I felt content, as if I had just walked into the center of a storm and moved it back out to the ocean, while standing there with my hands underneath the steaming water. I got to work on the coffee puddle with the rags and towels he left me. Each time, I'd soak them under the faucet, wring them once and press them back onto the tiles and table. I repeated this until all the coffee was gone and the only thing left was just water. When I realized that the spill was gone, I felt disappointed. Maybe I had worked too fast. The phone rang, I knew the number on the caller ID; I could hear the mix of wind, traffic and rain. "Don't forget to clean the blinds," he said. "I know. I got it," I said, "Go to work. Drive safely." "There's a sandwich by the coffee machine. Tell Judy -" "I know." I had stuffed paper towels into the tracks of the sliding glass door, the one that led to the backyard. When I removed the paper towels, the creases of where I had folded them, the part that made contact with the metal, had turned black. "Long! you're wasting paper. Why didn't you just use the rags," Judy said. She had just come downstairs. "Look, it's absolutely filthy there. I'm not using the rags. No," I said. I popped the lid of the trash can threw the paper towels away. "Do you know what happened here?" "No, I was in my room when I heard dad say something about coffee," she said. "Yeah. He spilled a cup of coffee and asked me to clean it because he had to go to work but it looked an entire pot." "Well, maybe he did," she said. She made the motion of throwing her arm out like a stage performer. "Were you up when mom was up?" "No, I don't think so." "I don't know. It's all over the window too." Victor came into the kitchen. "You're up early," he said. "Yeah. Dad woke me up. He spilled coffee," I said. He glanced over at the water running in the sink, the pile of towels and rags, the chair with the damp cushion, the splatters across the blinds and glass. "Dad's on crack," he said. I didn't respond. It didn't de
Checkmate ~ Part 1
Checkmate ~ Part 1
The fog’s moist tentacles enveloped Eric…smothering him and blinding him of sight. He could barely see an arm’s length in front of him. Yet he continued to scurry like a rodent down the back alleys of the city…crawling through its underbelly as quickly as he could, frantically feeling his way to refuge. Despite not being able to see what was ahead, Eric somehow knew where he was headed…it felt as if he had been there before. As chaotic and perilous as Eric’s journey had become, he welcomed the shelter that the fog provided from rival gangs and the police alike. It was hard to tell who was friend or foe in Eric’s world…but Eric preferred not to trust anyone. He had too many rivals…too many enemies. Eric didn’t care. He had selected this path long ago and knew full well the hazards of his chosen route…being the head of a city gang responsible for drug dealing, prostitution, robbery…and even murder. Eric had risen to the top of the criminal world in quick order. His cold-blooded nature was a revered asset even among his opponents. It led to status, notoriety…and wealth. Yet it now looked as if all was going to unravel. A month prior, one of his dealers sold bad crack to a 12-year old girl. Eric initially felt no remorse when she died other than the fact it meant lost revenue. However, he misjudged how this event would enrage and galvanize the local citizenry. It was an election year and the mayor granted his constabulary unprecedented powers to bring those responsible to justice. A full-scale citywide blitz was unleashed on all the city gangs. Eric’s “soldiers” were soon being arrested en masse and his flow of income was curtailed to a trickle. Rival gangs were similarly inconvenienced so it wasn’t long before Eric heard rumours that a bounty had been placed upon his head. Eric’s worst suspicions were confirmed this very night when he was caught in a shootout while driving his wife and children to dinner. He could not remember much of what happened other than the fact that he was clearly alive and not wounded. Certainly his wife and two sons were unharmed or else he would not be here. Still…Eric felt uneasy. He had no other recollection of what had happened the past 2 to 3 hours. Fortunately, despite being enshrouded by mist, Eric seemed to know where he was headed. A strange innate pull guided him forward. Although Eric had never been on this side of town before, it felt eerily familiar. “I must have come here as a boy” Eric said to himself, while walking past what now appeared to be a commercial district. “Strange…no one seems to be around tonight. Must be the fog…or later than I think”, Eric said aloud. He could not locate his blackberry and had forfeited the use of a watch like many of his generation with the advent of cell phones and I-Pads. Eric smiled, noticing the fog was now suddenly receding. Even better…he recognized a coffee shop across the street, the only establishment that he found open and lit this entire evening. Feeling the damp night chill, Eric rapidly crossed the street, opened the door of the diner…and walked inside. Although Eric did not have any memory of having been there in the past, for some strange reason, he sensed he had been to this cafe long ago. Eric glanced around the room and soon realized he was the only person in the coffee shop…other than a man who was standing behind the counter…his back towards Eric. “Yo bud…got the time?” Eric called out. “More than you realize”, responded the man behind the counter, still frozen in his stance. Eric chuckled to himself at the cocky response. He was not used to being spoken back to…but within limits, actually admired anyone who had the courage to confront him. “OK”, Eric continued, “Then can you tell me the time and where I am?” The man behind the counter slowly turned around and faced Eric. Eric was taken aback. He looked like an older version of himself. “It’s whatever time you want”, the man replied, “and I would have presumed that by now even you’d have figured out where you were”. Eric grimaced, no longer amused by the insolence. “NO ONE talks to me that way”, Eric retorted, swiftly pulling out a handgun and jabbing it into the man’s chest to prove his point. Yet this seemed to cause only mild amusement for the man behind the counter. He remained standing…grinning back at Eric. “I don’t scare easily my dear friend”, the older man continued. “I’ve seen it all in my time…and I’ve dealt with far worse than you”. His glacial eyes bore into Eric causing him to tremble. A wave of apprehension washed over Eric. Even with a bounty on his head, Eric never recalled a moment in time when he felt fear…until now. There was something commanding in the old man’s voice…and grim determination in his eyes. Eric had never known his father…and for a brief second wondered to himself…if… As if reading his mind, the old man continued the conversation. “My name is Jack. You know

white wash coffee table
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