The table seats twelve.

It has always seated twelve.

Helen had brought a pork roast, and I had done the potatoes with butter and too much salt, and there was nobody at the table to say a word about the salt.

“This is a nice dinner,” she said.

“It’s an ordinary dinner.”

“I know.” She cut her meat.

“That’s what I said.”

“You salted these like a woman with something on her mind.”