Claiming the Iron Perimeter

Dusk crept across the flagstones, but I was far from retreating inside. Beneath the heavy wrought-iron garden bench sat a stray tennis ball, weathered and swollen with grit. It rested there like a spherical boulder daring anyone to contest the shadowed gap. I marched straight into the low clearance. Setting my yellow briefcase flat against the damp stone, I drove my boot directly into the felt flank of the ball. It resisted with a stubborn, rubbery weight, but under the relentless thrust of my leg, it broke free, rolling out into the open dusk. The bench belongs to the sovereign.