The Mahogany Table

Amidst the bustle and rustle of the cars that flourish outside, he steps into the narrow staircase. The handrails are rusted where the thick green paint has peeled off, and the grey paint on the stairs is dirtied with black tar footprints. The walls are close beside him.

The second floor opens out, but not much wider, into a plateau with three doors. The tall, middle-aged landlord is waiting for him there. The fireplace is already lit inside his flat. The warmth is soft and cushions his footsteps. The flat is satisfactory.

They stand near the door, talking in hushed voices so as not to stir the coals, and the landlord looks at him with a sort of trepidation. He asks him why. He says that he has a strange proposition. He says Say it then. The landlord tells him that a 30% discount can be given if he were to give up something every month on the living room table. A 30% discount is not bad. Besides, he doesn’t have anything to value.

The first month, he places on the living room table a yellow leaf bookmark he bought on a whim as he prepares for bed. It’s gone by the morning. The second month, a moth specimen. Third month, high school ID. The rent is close to nothing. His blood pressure also gets better each month. He is extremely thankful to the landlord.

As spring passed and summer came, he started exchanging older items. His father’s fountain pen, a cherry-blossom postcard from his ex, a stolen key from his high school locker. His feet are lighter as they climb the stairs. It’s a good exercise.

As summer passed and autumn came, he started exchanging more significant items. His deceased grandfather’s cuckoo clocks. His grandmother’s handwoven lace. His childhood cat toy. And he delights himself in seeing the items disappear one by one by one from the apartment. The apartment empties, and he hears echoes when he walks. The walls are yellow. The wallpaper is yellow. The wallpaper on the ceiling is delightfully yellow.

As autumn passed and winter came anew, he started to give all that was left. He left his frying pan, then his pillowcase, and at last, after a few days of scratching his head, even his ironed shirt. He’s penniless, but his head is clear.

He never sees his landlord again, even though the man must've come in sometime to collect the items, but he does receive a handwritten note at the end of the year: You’ve given well. You may stop if you wish.

He does. In the thirteenth month, he misses the date he always gave things out; the 5th. His body starts to itch. The flat feels too small. His blood pressure spikes again on the report. The wallpaper…

And so, on a Friday, eight days after the habitual deadline, he stares at the table. Then, quietly, uncomplainingly, he walks over and sits, cross-legged, on the pinewood table.