Rhythm on the Glass

Climbing to the very top shelf took some real grip work, but once I hauled myself up beside a heavy ceramic mug, I stopped. The room had gone dim, and outside, the evening street hummed with that low, steady New York traffic rumble. I crept toward the windowpane, leaning both palms against the cool glass. Every time a bus passed below, a tiny vibration shuddered straight through the sill into my boots—almost like a beat you could tap along to. I sat right there against the mug, watching the distant headlights trail across the ceiling.