For years he sat at the loud table, where the talk never ran dry because it was always about someone. Who had failed. Who had left. Who thought too highly of themselves. He mistook the fullness of the table for friendship. He left those dinners full, and woke up empty, and never knew why.
Then one evening he sat at a quieter table. He waited for the talk to turn - for a name to be lifted up and taken apart. It never came. They spoke instead of a business one was building, a doubt about God another was wrestling, a dream someone had carried since childhood and only now said out loud.
At the old table, everyone left a little smaller - even the ones doing the talking. At this one, everyone rose a little larger than they came.
Walking home, he finally understood. The old table talked about people because it had nothing bigger to reach for, and tearing others down was the closest it ever got to climbing.
He didn’t go back. What he’d been hungry for all those years was never on that menu.