A conference room may not only possess the concreteness of a wooden table, but long walls, and a long floor, and a long ceiling.
Windows on long walls, and standing pressure on a long floor, and high hopes caught in the panels of a long ceiling.
A conference room is alive?
And at the heart of it, can be a particular conference table.
Sometimes, documents that affect the lives of others not there, are sorted, mixed, and collated into cogent court arguments, meant to persuade other others that there is an abiding presumption of innocence; most of the time.
Holiday party maneuvers would exist in the archaeological record, if for some reason years hence, academics took the time to examine the curvature and give of the surface of a long conference table.
Late night interludes, where beefy paralegal men thrust hips upward into the heat of hiked up business skirts, adorning hellasexual partnered attorneys, exacting a new privilege.
Caressing the glass ceiling with smeared fingerprints, and the tenderest of anticipation, as the ride forward is smooth and direct.
Grinding out the bottom, line.
Now get the fuck out, and don’t tell anyone, honey.
Perhaps, the nearby mail room facilities are managed by multinational conglomerates, that turn over staff like all night diners sling hash.
Have you ever been tabled?
The kind of question you may or may not get asked by a human resources specialist, as they try to ascertain if you have the requisite skill to lie well enough to be deemed employable, but poor enough to be scared shitless to lie again once you get the job.
Long deep colored tables are seldom found at bowling alleys or soup kitchens.
Sometimes having that many knowledgeable people on hand, fouls things up.
But, it sure looks nice when it’s all shined up, and the morning sun is tracing up over Boston Harbor, casting shadows and delights on the surface.
Most times, a table like this is used as a divide to break bad news to clients, that had other expectations.
Sometimes, those tables are polished with disappointed tears.