Transfers: We were. Kerrin and I, to the table.
Two others lingered long at our destination and we, wanting to imbue our presence upon the press of the seats and the smooth of the table's stretching surface, glanced, perhaps more than was polite, at them until both our waiting and conversation were suspended and...well...
Transfered.
Kerrin traced, with the tips of her fingers, the whispered prints of cup-rims, which seemed to be scattered across the surface. Their traces, over time and conversation, sinking into its wooden sea.
We lingered for a little longer, with time-tea. Chatter and walled-photographs kept us company while we boated aboard the Table-of-Fringe to the shore where we departed into wafts of Sunday-sunshine.
Transfers.
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