Cash and Carry, by David Sedaris

"The fitness center I go to in New York is thirty blocks from my apartment, and I was walking home from it one autumn afternoon when I came upon a woman who was attempting to carry a cabinet. It was waist-high and maybe five feet long-a metal frame with eight canvas drawers. I watched as she lifted it, took a few steps, and then set it back down with an expression that read as both How badly do I really need this?"

"When I moved to London, my first table was used as well, but that one wasn't found on the street. Rather, it came from an Indian restaurant I'd gone to with a friend who was visiting from Arizona. "Anything else?" our waiter had asked at the end of the meal. "Yes," I'd said. "Can I have this table? It's the perfect size for my kitchen.""

"With my friend's help, the table, the napkins, and the bowl weren't difficult to get home. Unlike the cabinet. The thing wasn't heavy so much as cumbersome. I thought it might be easier for me to carry on my own, but the woman wouldn't hear of it. "You're too old," she said. "I can't let you hurt yourself on account of me.""

A walker returning from a fitness center notices a silver-haired woman struggling to carry a waist-high metal-framed cabinet with eight canvas drawers. The cabinet is cumbersome rather than heavy; the woman lifts it, takes a few steps, then sets it down with a questioning expression. A passerby offers assistance and recalls finding furniture on curbs and obtaining a table from an Indian restaurant in London for twenty pounds. With a friend's help, smaller items were brought home easily, but the cabinet proves awkward. The woman refuses solo help, insisting, "You're too old," and warning against injury.

Read at The New Yorker