The bowl that lives on the console and collects whatever the day leaves behind. Keys, olives, a handful of cherries, nothing at all.

Cut glass in hazel, that smoky amber that turns to honey against a lamp, faceted so the light breaks differently from every angle. Just over six inches across and three deep, the proportion that works as a catchall on an entry table and as a serving bowl at the bar.

For the host who sets things out rather than putting them away, the new apartment, the friend with one bare surface left.