I was sittin’ at the old oak table in the corner of the kitchen, my mug of tea warm between my hands. The table had scratches deep enough to tell stories, and one corner was chipped from when I’d slammed it in frustration years ago. Still, it held steady, like it always had.
“Boy, you ain’t even stirrin’ that tea,” my cousin Malik said from the sofa. He had his feet up on the coffee table, which squeaked under his weight. “You just sittin’ there lookin’ like the world owe you somethin’.”
“I’m thinkin’,” I said, swirl the tea slow, watchin’ the steam curl. “Ain’t no rush to move.”
Malik snorted. “Man, you talkin’ like that table taught you patience or somethin’. What’s next? You gon’ start talkin’ to the couch?”
I grinned. “Maybe I already do.”
The kitchen smelled like the honey I dropped in my tea, mixed with the faint scent of old wood polish from the table. I leaned back in my chair, feelin’ the familiar dents in the seat, and for a minute, everything made sense—the furniture, the tea, the chatter. All of it, tied up in small moments like this.
“Life simple sometimes,” I said. Malik nodded, sippin’ his own tea, and for once, the room was quiet enough that the old oak table could tell its story without interruption.
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