A Midnight Bookmark

Leaning back against that heavy leather dictionary, the quiet of the bookstore finally coaxed my stiff joints into winding down. Wandering the streets for days is grand theater, but an exhausted performer eventually needs lodging. Nestled between two tied volumes of poetry, I spotted an unraveling crimson silk ribbon bookmark. Naturally, a jester does not sleep without velvet curtains. Using both gauntlets, I gave the frayed ribbon a firm tug, unfurling its soft red length across the dusty paper edges like an improvised stage canopy. I tucked my boots beneath the fold, rested my back against the aged buckram spine, and let the night take its final bow.