"Glue him to the table." That was the primary thought that crossed her intellect when he attempted to walk absent from the discussion once more. Continuously diverting, continuously avoiding the troublesome themes. She didn't cruel it literally—well, possibly a little—but it felt just like the as it were way to induce him to remain still long sufficient to tune in. Each time feelings rose or truth crawled as well near to the surface, he'd discover an pardon to move. The pot bubbling. A call coming within. The dog crying. It was like attempting to hold water in your hands.
But what in case you'll fair stick him to the table? Not with super stick or channel tape, but with words that stuck. Questions that stuck him down. Truths that wouldn't let him elude. Envision being so listened, so caught on, that he had no choice but to stay—anchored not by constrain, but by the gravity of what required to be said.
Possibly that's the genuine meaning. To stick somebody to the table is to request nearness. Unified consideration. To say, "Sit. Remain. Listen me." And perhaps in a world that moves as well quick, where everybody is midway out the entryway sincerely, that's the genuine rebellion—getting somebody to remain.