The first chair unfolds with a dry, arthritic snap.

The first chair unfolds with a dry, arthritic snap. The metal legs splay, refusing to meet the linoleum at equal height, leaving one corner hovering over a gum-stain shaped like a dead moth. I jam a folded hymnal under the leg until it sits stable enough to hold weight, though not weight of trust. The vinyl seat skin is cracked along the spine, exposing grey foam that has hardened into concrete dust. It does not smell like lavender; it smells of old sweat and damp wool.

The second chair is locked by a rusted hinge pin seized in the housing. I work my thumbnail into the gap, feeling the metal bite back, leaving a crescent of red skin embedded with iron oxide flakes. This is not failure; this is negotiation with fatigue. The chair remains folded, a sculpture of intent rather than use. I leave it there. The row looks uneven now, a jagged tooth against the wall’s peeling beige paint.

I drag the long table out from under the stage shadows. It groans, wheels catching on a raised seam in the floorboards. The wood surface is warped, bowing inward so that if you lay a flat hand down, the palm floats over the center while fingertips press hard on the edges. I pull a stained white linen from a plastic bin. It is stiff with dried laundry starch and yellowed underarms. There are coffee rings that have been scrubbed but not removed, ghostly halos of weak acid eating into the weave.

I pin the corners with mismatched thumbtacks. Two are missing heads. The third bends sideways, driven into a knot in the table’s grain. I smooth the fabric over the warp. It does not lie flat. The cloth tented up at the center, creating a small, white mountain that casts no shadow in the fluorescent hum. I do not correct it. I place the first plate. It is chipped on the rim, a shard missing from the white glaze. I set it down. There are no more plates to place in the bin.