Morning wood

The knots in the pine table stared accusingly at Parson. He wondered what he ever did to make the table dislike him. He pulled his morning coffee closer.

Maybe it was that time he put the hot lasagna pan on the table without a trivet. It didn’t leave a mark, but it was very hot. Or maybe all the times he spilled his drink, but didn’t clean in the space where the extension goes, so that when he needed to lengthen the table for Thanksgiving or whatever it was all sticky and gross in there. Or maybe all the times the kids stabbed the table with their forks.

“How long will these shrooms last?” thought Parson to himself.

“You’re not on shrooms,” the table growled.