The table is bright and grating. It glows like a dandelion on fire. White paint cuts the yellow into ten, wedge-shaped sections. One for each of my fingers, she’d said. Sure, I’d said as we stood on the front lawn at that garage sale. It was a lemon. A giant-ass lemon table with five yellow chairs. I hope the chairs come with it, I’d said. Don’t be silly, she’d said, missing my sarcasm. Of course they do. And they did. Lord knows they did. And once we got the table home I was dedicated to hating it—I was committed. I bought countless tablecloths and placemats in blues and greens, even paisley, anything calmer than lemon, but she wouldn’t cover it for anything. Yesterday, though, yesterday it was really something. I go downstairs and into the kitchen for breakfast, my bare feet sticking to the linoleum as I pad across the room. And there she is, sitting at that table, newspaper spread out, the first rays of morning sun seeping in the windows, dancing on her dark brown hair. She’s smoking a cigarette and the room’s just swirling with smoke and sun. And she looks up, looks over the rims of her readers at me and she smiles, says do I want to go to a movie later. It’s like she’s been waiting for me all night as she sits there smiling, resting her arms on the newspaper, glowing like a dandelion on fire. And now, I can only stare at the table in wonder and watch it glow and glow and glow.