A Gentle Crispness

I eased my chin out from the shallow dip of the measuring spoon and took a slow stroll across the smooth linoleum. Near the foot of the wire vegetable basket, a papery brown onion skin had drifted free onto the floor. I stopped to look at it for several quiet breaths. When I reached out a front flipper to gently touch it, it didn't slide away; it rustled with a faint, fragile whisper. I gave it a soft push, curling it slightly inward under my weight. Its thin, ribbed texture felt wonderfully dry and light against my nose.