The plan was a quick supper for four. The Goose Jazz Band runner suggested something livelier, and by nine o’clock there were ten chairs around the table.
The table sets the tempo
The runner went down first. Its illustrated geese looked as if they had marched in from another story, instruments ready, entirely unconcerned with perfect place settings. White plates, mismatched glasses and a jar of late garden branches suddenly looked intentional beside them.
The hosts stopped trying to make the room impressive. They made it generous instead: more bread, a second bowl of salad, candles in old jam jars and room for whoever knocked next.
A welcoming table is not measured by matching plates, but by how slowly the chairs become empty.
One more chair
A friend brought a friend. The upstairs neighbour came down to return a book and stayed for soup. Someone found a trumpet playlist, someone else cut pears, and the conversation travelled from school-day mishaps to future journeys nobody had booked yet.
The linen gathered a few crumbs and one heroic drop of red sauce. It did not diminish the evening. A table textile earns its place by joining real meals, not by remaining untouched between them.
The quiet after the music
Long after the last guest left, two cups remained at opposite ends of the runner. The house was untidy and completely content. In the morning, the little jazz band was still there, holding the memory of a supper that became a gathering without anybody deciding it should.
