"Why not make this home?" I ask. "Why aren't there pictures on the walls? Why aren't there books left on couches and towels draped over sofas, comfortable seating outside?" I glance quickly at the wrought-iron table that now symbolises so much about this man; I hate it more than I did a week ago when I first saw it. "Why do you have this horrible wrought-iron table?" "You have a problem with my table?" "It's horrible." He almost smiles.
