The Cast Iron Wedge

I pushed past our hallway and made my way down the ground floor stairs to the building foyer. Near the heavy front entrance glass sat a cast iron owl doorstop, cold and solid. I approached it, planting all four paws firmly on the polished terrazzo tiles. Lowering my head, I pressed my snout against its textured iron wing. It barely budged. I paused, adjusted my stance, and leaned in with the full weight of my chest. It slid forward half an inch with a low, metallic scrape across the stone. Step by deliberate step, I nudged it until it settled right into the corner seam where the glass frame meets the stone wall. It sits unyielding. The threshold to the street is properly anchored.