Today I was wiping down the little table in our kitchen and I started thinking about its path to where it is now. I bought it when I moved to the city center in Poitiers after six months in the colocation where I met J, my future boyfriend. That move was the first one I’d make into an unfurnished apartment by myself. I already had a bed and an armoire that I’d bought for the flat-share, plus an old desk they didn’t mind me moving out with.
I bought it for 30 euros at Troc in Poitiers, and it was my dining table for a year and a half in my little walk-up apartment in a historic centre-ville building.
When I moved into the duplex with J, the kitchen was unfinished except for the standard sink, so it served as our kitchen counter/work surface, and we made our coffee and toasted our brioche on it every morning.
Now that we’re in the new house, it’s the table where we eat when it’s just the two of us, and it takes up a lot more space in the kitchen than it should, considering how small it is—no more than two people are comfortable eating at it.
We’ve put a new kitchen table on our wedding registry. We’d like to replace it for something that three or four people could eat breakfast at.
But I’ll always have a soft spot for this tiny wooden laminate thing that was intended to be short-term and that instead has followed me through these different phases of my life.