The outdoor table I liked had room for two glasses, a bowl of olives and a decorative object whose function was not explained. My balcony had room for the table or for me.
I had lived in the flat for three months. I used the balcony to check the weather, which involved opening the door, looking at the sky and immediately closing it again. The chair from my previous place remained folded behind the kitchen door.
One afternoon I carried it outside and opened it in the space beside the wall. It stood properly on the floor without crowding the door or the railing. I put the things I had been storing there back in their actual places, then sat down.
I stopped planning for a guest who was not there.
From the chair I could see a row of balconies, a delivery van and a tree that had dropped a surprising amount of material into the courtyard. It was not the view in the furniture advertisement. It was the view from my home.
I had imagined that making the balcony useful meant making it suitable for company. But the person currently wanting to sit outside was me, with a book. We fitted.
I took the book out and read a few pages. A neighbour came onto the next balcony to hang a cloth over a rack. We said hello. Neither of us asked for a tour.
Company could happen somewhere else.
When a friend visited later that week, we had tea at the kitchen table. She looked at the balcony and asked whether I used it. I said yes. I did not apologise for the absence of a second seat; we were already sitting comfortably together.
On a colder day I stayed inside. When rain was coming, I folded the chair and put it away. Using the space did not require demonstrating my commitment to outdoor living in every condition.
I eventually removed the table from my shopping list. I still like it. In a different flat it might be useful. In this one I prefer being able to open the door.
The decorative object remained mysterious. I have managed several afternoons without resolving that.
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