Henry Whitaker, an American author, had a penchant for peculiar acquisitions, the latest being a second-hand pool table. His friends in Bath, England, found this particularly amusing, considering he lived on the third floor of a Georgian flat. Yet, Henry was undeterred.
The delivery day dawned gray and misty, typical of the English weather that had become a constant backdrop to his life. He heard the rumble of the delivery truck and peered out the window, watching as two burly men wrestled the table out, their breath visible in the morning chill.
Henry bounded down the narrow staircase to greet them, his excitement palpable. The men exchanged weary glances, surveying the narrow, winding staircase that led up to his flat. “Are you sure about this, mate?” one of them asked, his accent thick with skepticism.
Henry nodded vigorously. “Absolutely. I’ve measured everything. It’ll fit, trust me.”
The men shrugged and began the arduous task. Step by step, they inched the table upwards, the wood creaking ominously. Henry hovered nearby, offering encouragement and advice, though he was largely ignored.
At one particularly tight corner, they had to tilt and maneuver the table in ways that seemed to defy physics. Henry held his breath, half-expecting disaster. But finally, with a triumphant shove, they made it to his door.
Breathless and sweating, the men set the table down in Henry’s makeshift study. It dominated the room, its presence both absurd and magnificent. Henry couldn’t help but grin, already imagining the countless nights he’d spend lost in the game, the clacking of balls echoing through the flat.
The delivery men looked at him as if he were mad, but Henry didn’t mind. He tipped them generously and watched as they departed, shaking their heads.
As he chalked a cue and took his first practice shot, Henry felt a deep satisfaction. It was a small, strange victory, but a victory nonetheless. In that moment, amidst the ancient stones of Bath, he felt perfectly at home.