Just look at this cutting table! Truthfully, it was my favorite item at the Conran Shop. Apparently, they sell fabric by the yard. But woefully, not this cutting table. Sigh.
Labels: conran shop
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4.14.2006
cutting table of my dreams
Just look at this cutting table! Truthfully, it was my favorite item at the Conran Shop. Apparently, they sell fabric by the yard. But woefully, not this cutting table. Sigh.
posted by Elaine Perlov at
9:25 AM
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- Name: Elaine Perlov
- Location: Brooklyn, NY, United States
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1 Comments:
The table itself was pristine. It was shimmering. It was cold and piercing as a Hudson Hawk, yet as warm and inviting as my favorite nook at the corner bistro where I’d just had lunch. The table’s coat of armor shown brilliantly in the din of florescent light. It was virgin steel, with nary a mark, nor a smudge, nor a speck of dust on it.
A large semi-circle divot cut like a scar across its otherwise featureless face. Had there ever been a bolt of fabric there? I didn't think so. I wanted to climb into that scar, to extend the length of my body against that semicircle and feel the gentle caress of the steel on my tingling skin. But I couldn’t bring myself to touch the metallic flesh of this masterpiece, fearing I’d leave a mark and forever disparaging its otherwise spotless reputation.
Beneath the table a well-worn set of shears sat idly atop a stack of order forms filled out long ago and long since filled. But they weren’t filled here. No, nothing had ever been cut here. This was new. This was pure. This was not a place where fabric was cut. This was a place from which dreams were born, the dreams of countless designers with designs on fulfilling their dreams. This was a magical place, where the air hung motionless and the only sound was the buzzing of the banks of florescent rods overhead. Even the industrial tile floor took on a semblance of importance when sat upon by such a magnificent specimen.
I felt my body begin to quiver in that all-to-familiar way, I reached out one hand to touch the smooth, hard surface of my love. But before I could graze it, my body convulsed in an explosion of light and sensation such as I’d never felt before.
And as I fell to my weakened knees in front of the altar of my own making, so close but so out of reach, a single tear rolled down my cheek.
“You aren’t mine,” I whispered. “You aren’t mine or anyone else’s, nor can you ever be.”
And with that I kneeled motionless, the harsh florescent light beating down on me in a disapproving glare of superiority. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for the time that could never be.
Ds
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