Turn of the Wheel

My knuckles pressed against the cold brass rail of a revolving door. Leaning my weight forward, I shoved. The tall mahogany frame and curved glass panes began to pivot with a low, rumbling groan. Rubber sweeps hissed softly as they brushed across the cold marble floor tiles, pushing a circular wave of cool air across my chest. Clack. An overhead brass catch tripped as the frame completed a quarter turn. I froze instantly in a deep crouch, tilting my head back toward the central spindle, tracking the rhythmic scrape of oiled ball bearings until the heavy glass wings coasted into absolute silence.