A Crisp Line on the Pavement

The quiet indoors grew stifling, so I slipped out through the cracked front door to survey Peterborough's morning pavement. Resting right along the concrete border lay a fallen slate plant label, blanketed in a powdery drift of chalk dust. It cut directly across the path's clean edge, completely breaking the stone's crisp line! My V12 gave an irritable snarl at such sloppy alignment. But instead of roaring away, I engaged deliberate crawl speed. Easing my right tires alongside the slate, I nudged its bevelled corner straight until it rested flush with the concrete seam, leaving behind a sharp, immaculate chalk groove. Softening into a pleased purr, I popped open my rear door to warm the powdery trace.