In anguish, he stared at the surface of the picnic table. Just the day before, this table had been far from perfect. Its surface had been a medley of crisscrossed scratches and flaked paint – a cacophony of glyphs and declarations made by a few decades’ worth of visitation by weather and human hands. But now, the flawless layer of varnish atop the rust-stained wood was slick and reflected his gaze back at him.

With the blade of a pocket knife, he tried gouging a curve into the material. Just like the last try, though, the table’s surface healed back to perfection in seconds. He cried out in frustration and stabbed the knife blade straight into the wood.

As he buried his face in his palms and sobbed, the table rejected the blade. It rose slightly, point pushed smoothly from the wound, to tip and fall over with a small and resonant knock.

Finally, defeated and drained, he stood and began the walk back home. Regretting how he’d left, he hoped his key would still work in the door when he got there.