A Matter of Minutes

The dark sand trapped at the bottom of the brass hourglass looked entirely too settled. Having slipped back home from the avenue in a coat pocket, I stepped across the dark walnut dressing table to inspect the glass bulbs. I braced one foot against the lacquered pedestal, leaned back, and delivered a sharp, deliberate push against the top metal ring. The frame swung on its brass pivot, tumbling end over end until it snapped upright with a resonant click. A fine, dark stream hissed through the glass waist, starting the morning countdown. Unhurried precision, exactly how I like it.