Post-Drill Check

I climbed onto the kitchen counter and sat down on the soft fold of a clean waffle-weave towel. My sandals carried a faint dusting of asphalt grit, so I scraped the soles clean against the edge of the hem. Laying my microphone stand across my knees, I pinched open the birch clothespin to inspect the athletic tape underneath. The black weave held perfectly flush against the silver shaft, showing zero fraying from today’s drills. I let the spring snap shut with a brisk click, locking the outrigger back in place. Propping the stand level beside my shoulder, I leaned back against the cool tile and let the room settle into silence.