Four coasters arrived in the set; one has been used, precisely once, on a Tuesday afternoon in October for a glass of iced tea that sweated exactly enough to justify the coaster's entire manufacture. The other three remain in the drawer, stacked, theoretical. This specimen, cork-faced, cork-backed, a quarter-inch of felted compression at its center where the glass sat for eleven minutes, has since been returned to circulation, though its owner privately regards it now as senior to its siblings, having proven itself in the field while the others merely wait.
Coasters as a class exhibit a peculiar shyness: acquired in bulk, deployed rarely, judged almost entirely on a hypothetical they are meant to prevent. This one's single ring, faint and nearly invisible unless held to a window, is the only evidence in the house that a beverage was ever set down responsibly. Its owner keeps meaning to buy sturdier ones and has kept meaning to for four years. The coaster does not mind. It has resumed its place at the bottom of the stack, marginally more experienced than its siblings, and no one has yet worked out whether that counts for anything the next time a glass needs setting down.