Squaring the Line

Morning light cut across the dash. Level plane. Dense textured grain beneath my boots. I walked the perimeter along the defroster grille. Solid molding, slotted even. Right at the base of the glass, a stiff white parking ticket lay wedged at an awkward angle, corner lifting into the sightline. Not proper. I braced my boots against the raised rubber trim, took hold of the cardstock, and pressed the curled edge flat with my thumb until it settled flush into the groove. No rattle. No obstruction across the deck. Everything sits square.