A Brass Cleat

I pushed past the edge of the woven rug. Ahead sat a stray brass belt buckle dropped beside the sofa leg. Heavy metal. Cold. I circled it once, watching for any sudden shift. Nothing moved. I planted both boots, leaned low, and drove my fingers under the curved prong. It fought back with dead weight. I dug my heels in and dragged the brass piece two inches toward the sofa base, securing it upright against the wood like a mooring cleat. Good gear. Doesn't yield easily.