The old man leans on me, and I think he loves me. I can tell from the way his hand encircles my wooden handle, which is worn smooth from his years of rubbing at it. He has replaced the rubber tip at my end more than a few times, and it always feels good when he does so. The new one fits so snugly, and afterward he and I feel more secure, no slippage, as he walks across the kitchen linoleum.

He laughs when he uses me to swordfight with his grandchildren. They wield some distant cousin of mine that they found in the yard, and I admit it hurts a little when we collide. It’s worth it, though, to see his pleasure.

Before she died, he would let her borrow me sometimes, when she was unsteady on her feet and needed the support. Her body was lighter than his, and I liked the way she leaned on me while she tapped her way into the bathroom at night.

So I don’t know how he could have forgotten me, could have left me here. The restaurant is busy, but they haven’t yet bussed the table, and no one has noticed that I’ve fallen beneath it and am lying on my side on the floor, which is wet and dotted with food scraps—the old man has become a messier and messier eater. There was a handrail along the restaurant wall, and the old man must have held it on his way out, must have had his hand on something else—but how could that be, how could he have mistaken that for me? Does he not love me the way I love him?

I think I even heard his car start a few minutes ago. Surely when he gets home, when he gets out of the car and tries to walk inside alone, he will notice, will see that I am gone. In the meantime, I suppose I’ll just lie here, under the table, hoping that whoever sits here next doesn’t accidentally step on my neck.

Victor McConnell grew up in a small town in Texas and graduated from Dartmouth’s creative writing program. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net, multiple Pushcarts, and has appeared in journals such as the Los Angeles Review, North American Review’s Short Story, Louisville Review, New Ohio Review, Mid-Atlantic Review, New Millennium, and others. His first poetry chapbook, If You Can Hear This, is available from Bottlecap Press. His first full-length book, a collection of short stories titled When Even the Bones Have Thinned, is forthcoming with Hidden River Press. He lives in Golden, Colorado. See his website, and follow the author here.