The Honeycomb Crevice

I crept down from the wire whisk across the cooling countertop. Stillness first. Near the tiled wall, two heavy oak cutting boards leaned against the backsplash, framing a narrow shadowed wedge. Tucked inside was a folded charcoal waffle-weave towel. Tap... tap. One jointed limb pressed the fabric. The thick honeycomb cotton gave with a gentle spring, quiet and firm. Caught between the boards, a dry cinnamon stick lay slanted against the weave. Deliberately, I nudged the fragrant bark down until it wedged flat across the gap, propping the fabric fold open like a low tent flap. A dark, snug hollow. Methodically, I curled my long legs inward, sinking into the deep weave. Safe from drafts, I rest.