Suddenly the scratches on the desk top became more interesting. One was definitely a J, carved in a uniuqe, chaotic font, a remnant of a previous owner, some previous life this desk had had. Several perfect circular stains, one only 2 centimetres in diameter, varnish blisters breaking through, lineal and irregular scrapes, deliberate and accidental, all blotted the surface.
Slightly oxidised brass corner brackets held the form perfectly, preventing the edges from becoming frayed. Two 35 centimeter drawers, sporting rectangular hinged handles of the same worn brass, groaned as they opened and closed. They once slid in easily but now resisted, like an elderly person being forced to do something their body had long before ceased to have the ability to do. The musty smell from within also betrayed the table’s age.
When he picked the desk up at the junk shop the woman told him he could easily restore it. Restore it? You have to be joking.