A Notch on the Brass Peg

I climbed down from the bicycle basket as dusk settled and made my way back across the gravel, stepping through the doorway into the warm hall. Before turning in for the night, I looked up at the low wooden bench beneath the coat rack. A sturdy wool scarf hung dangling low from an antique brass hook, its fringed hem brushing the seat. I grasped the braided fringe, tested the weave's resistance with a solid downward tug, and hauled myself upward until I gained the brass hook itself. Perched atop the cold curved metal, my boots resting squarely on its lip, I could watch the entire quiet length of the hall.