The Haul
Johanna Robinson
Faith spreads out her new cream tablecloth, pushing out the creases. The cloth is round but her ancient wooden table is square, and its corners remain visible, bare and scarred. She strokes the palm of one hand across the fabric in a flat, wide arc, and then the other. The muscles in her back and shoulders stretch, as though her body is an old loom, cranked up at last. There is a light sheen to the tablecloth, a vague leaf pattern. Near the hem is a worn area the size of a penny, and the rest of the material is freckled with tiny stains. She sees all this better now she’s home, under the glare of the shadeless kitchen bulb, than when she was in the shop earlier, tugging the cloth out of the tall wire basket labelled Scraps. She runs her fingers over the blemishe
