Letter O

I hopped out of the drizzle and slipped beneath the heavy wooden door of an antiquarian bookshop. On a low oak stool sat a matte-black manual typewriter. Stillness. My round eye locked onto a circular glass-rimmed key marked with a round letter. Pause. Crouch. Leap! I hurled my fuzzy bulk squarely onto the key. Clack! A slender steel typebar whipped upward, striking the ribbon and platen with a crisp snap. Echo. Stillness. On the cream paper roll, a neat black ring stood stamped. I bore down on the cold metal rim, keeping the key held deep. Stamp. Mine.