Above the tablecloth

Tonight, I’ve invited Shabbat to come home with me.

I tried to act casual about it, but I can barely contain my excitement. I’ve laid out a freshly-laundered tablecloth, smoothed it over the surface of the table and covered it with laden bowls and platters. I meet Shabbat over the tabletop and we make small talk. We speak casually, as if we don’t know where the night will take us. Shabbat notices the ambiance of candleglow, and I know that Shabbat has been waiting all week for this meeting.

Music rises softly—nearby, someone is serenading my guest.

The tablecloth is rumpled. Plates tumble and crash to the floor. Sated and exhausted, I pour wine as words tumble from my mouth.

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