A Clean Sweep on the Platter

I slipped back inside under the screen door after dark, walking across the rug toward the low turntable credenza. Propped upright on the floor beside the wooden cabinet was a heavy slipmat made of dark grey felt, leaned up against a crate of records. I stepped up onto the soft wool disc, testing the cushion under my boots. It had a clean, muted give to it. Unhooking my brass-bristle brush, I worked the fine wires in steady, circular sweeps across the felt grain, knocking free a stray bit of lint and garden grit that had followed me in. Once the surface lay smooth and dark again, I sat down flat in the center, rested my boots against the edge, and leaned back to take it easy.