Black Round Kitchen Table

black round kitchen table
    kitchen table
  • a table in the kitchen
  • A kitchen is a room or part of a room used for cooking and food preparation.
  • Make black, esp. by the application of black polish
  • the quality or state of the achromatic color of least lightness (bearing the least resemblance to white)
  • Make (one's face, hands, and other visible parts of one's body) black with polish or makeup, so as not to be seen at night or, esp. formerly, to play the role of a black person in a musical show, play, or movie
  • blacken: make or become black; "The smoke blackened the ceiling"; "The ceiling blackened"
  • being of the achromatic color of maximum darkness; having little or no hue owing to absorption of almost all incident light; "black leather jackets"; "as black as coal"; "rich black soil"
  • a charge of ammunition for a single shot
  • Pass and go around (something) so as to move on in a changed direction
  • Alter (a number) to one less exact but more convenient for calculations
  • Give a round shape to
  • from beginning to end; throughout; "It rains all year round on Skye"; "frigid weather the year around"
  • wind around; move along a circular course; "round the bend"

The band came in at around eight and lugged everything into the living room. The van was parked on the sidewalk. It was a stereotypical Volkswagen, the kind that you would expect from touring surf-rockers or the Scooby Doo gang. I helped. We brought in the guitars, the effects pedals, the things that you could carry in on bags. She watched from she was sitting on the stoop, on the first few stairs. Stewie was in her lap and she was reading the newspaper. Once in a while, she'd look over the top edge at the people who were going to turn her living room inside out by ten o' clock. "Watch the stairs," she said sarcastically when we started to bring in the amps. They were large and heavy. I turned and looked at her, "Yes ma'am." Their size made it awkward to carry up the stoop. She didn't want us to chip the paint that curled around the edge of the steps like toes. We had been living in the house for only a few months. We rented from an old couple who had retired and left for Nova Scotia, somewhere on the edge of Canada. They left us with most of their furniture. At least for the downstairs living room, the kitchen, the patio and the front porch. There was an old piano against the wall that still played though was out of tune. It was white and the panel that covered the strings and hammers had been lost. Its innards fully revealed, it looked like an old postal machine, used to organize letters or a switch box, use to organize phone calls. They were generous enough and the rent was low. The surf rockers were friends of ours. They had come in from Monterrey, home of John Steinbeck, which is not too far from Santa Cruz and relatively not too far from Sacramento. We were all sitting around the round kitchen table. There weren't enough seats for all of us, seven including my girlfriend and I, so a few leaned their backs the counter top and held their dishes in their hands. Fried eggs, ham, rice, spring greens from the garden in the backyard, beer and black tea. It smelled slightly musty from the rain that had just stopped a few hours ago. If you were there, you could see the sun setting deeper outside the window. "It's good seeing you guys again," she said, "how long has it been?" "Almost two years," the one in the white tank top and blue jeans said. "We've been out in the country and haven't been in California for a while. Thanks for letting us stop by and use your house." I passed the bowl of greens to him, and said "Do you want some more?" "Was there any place that you liked most? We're planning on driving cross country this summer," she said. "Yeah. Wisconsin." "No way. Wisconsin?" "No kidding. Wisconsin. You should definitely take the northern route through highway 94 or 90." It was almost two in the morning when the show was over and the people who came in had enough of hanging out and we went home. Some other local musicians had dropped in and played a few songs. Everything was short sets. We didn't want the neighbors to call the police and since we were new, didn't want to ruin our goodwill with them yet. The surfrockers from Monterrey slept downstairs or in the patio. She and I were up stairs in our bedroom. We laid down on the bed after brushing our teeth and changing into our sleep clothes. "That was great. We should do things like this more often," she said. She moved closer under the blanket and put her hand on my hip bone. I slept on my side, facing the window. "I smell like pot," I said. "I don't care," she said. "We should take them out for breakfast tomorrow morning before they leave." "Yeah. Pancake Circus." I said. "How long have you known them?" "Around the start of college. All of us use to go to the same high school actually, but we didn't know each other then. It wasn't until after we all graduated and went to community at Hartnell." "That's almost ten years ago." "Yeah." I opened my eyes and looked out the window. The sun was coming up but was still a hazy glow across the curtains. I turned to look at her but was surprised to see that she was up. "How long have you been awake?" I said. "I don't know. A while," she said. "Couldn't sleep?" "Yeah. I have no idea what I'm doing." "Then go back to sleep," I said. "I'll try."
020169 02 29
020169 02 29
boston, february 1969 dewolf home on beacon hill maggie and mary donna meredith part of an archival project, featuring the photographs of nick dewolf

black round kitchen table
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