A Faint Gray Line

I slipped through the gate and hopped along the damp pavement toward Friar Gate, tucking into an old red telephone kiosk to escape the drizzle. Inside, the steady patter on the glass roof sounded like distant applause. On the brushed-metal ledge beneath the payphone, a stubby yellow golf pencil lay resting beside a discarded bus transfer. I paused, letting the calm shelter envelop my ears. Moving close with quiet hops, I nudged the smooth lacquered wood with both front paws. It rolled with a hushed clatter across the steel, trailing a faint gray graphite arc across the dry slip of paper before resting gently against the corner pane.