A Bristled Rhythm

Gliding past the open supply niche in the quiet corridor, my eyes locked onto a tall push broom propped against the baseboard. I tested the polished marble floor with the front tip of my loafer, ensuring my footing before crouching beside the heavy wooden broom head. Shamone! With steady precision, I reached forward and ran the side of my microphone across the row of stiff synthetic bristles. Zrrrp-shhhk! A gritty, percussive friction crackled against the silence, spraying a faint cloud of floor dust across the glossy tile. I froze in a balanced crouch, admiring the textured scrape.