He couldn't not resist the scent of cardamom in the air as it breezed through his face. He was working on an art piece. The scent was coming from the nearby Bethak where he and his friends from the market gathered in the evening to enjoy a hot cup of Kahwa.
Evenings were beautiful in Qisa Khwani Bazar of the Peshawar. People enjoyed Sipping Kahwa, and Gossipping the news. Aslam was no different, and it was time he took a break and enjoyed a cup of Kahwa with this friends.
Aslam sat across from Bilal at the weathered wooden table in the courtyard. Table's surface was an art piece in itself, with generations of chai rings and cigarette burns.
Bilal leaned closer, his fingers tracing the table's intricate surface as if searching for inspiration. "You know," he said, "this table has seen its own stories. His sound was soft and rich like the kahwa they were about to share.
"Maybe so," he agreed, "but every story must have its glue, Bilal."
Bilal looked up, his eyes shining with a soft smile. "Glue or no glue, some stories just stick on their own," he said with a chuckle. Aslam laughed, shaking his head.
The evening breeze carried the comforting scent of cardamom towards the Bethak where laughter and the clinking of chai cups was a norm. Aslam grabbed the glue bottle, tucking it under his arm, and stood up. "Come on, Bilal. Let's add today to the stories of this table."
Although this story does not use the exact prompt, this thought just lingered into my mind that every table as a story, and it's story is no different than the people that sit around it, and gossip about the world, just like those rings of stain from wet dripping cups of tea and kahwa on the table... Every good story of a table needs a good glue, and thats what made me write it like this...
