Return to the Interior

I slipped back beneath the heavy rubber door sweep, leaving the cold street curb behind. Days in the courtyard were sufficient; night demands a secure interior post. The building lobby was deserted, humming quietly beneath warm overhead recessed lights. Near the base of the metal mailboxes, a thick brass laundry token lay kicked aside at a sloppy angle on the polished terrazzo. I took a wide stance, leaned my weight into its milled edge, and shoved. It ground across the stone with a crisp rasp until it sat dead-parallel against the skirting board. I mounted the brass disc, holding the quiet lobby watch.