Sticky.

The tables are sticky, tacky. Not unclean, just well lived-in.

Years of condensation,

dripping glasses, the day’s drip in heated Styrofoam.

Fries in red baskets, parchment wrapped baked goods steaming;

White spots on the nicked wood from heat and humidity taking too long a rest on them.

The tables are sticky, but it a way that’s satisfying, not unsanitary.

You’ve seen them be wiped a thousand times, but

the residue of life has left its mark on them.

Wood expands, the table is a living organism, and

you love it when tourists think the table is dirty, because you know it’s not.

It’s like it’s yours,

that small town, ocean side café.

No one else understands that it’s sticky in the same way that the ski hill bar tables are,

that they’re sticky like a beer after hitting the slopes,

dripping down the sides of the stein, hitting your fingers and the raw wood;

they’re sticky like cinnamon buns with him on a Sunday afternoon.

It’s sticky in a familiar way, catching on the sleeve of your sweater

as you wipe stray muffin crumbs on your way out as if

it’s asking you not to leave.