A Fine Bristle

A wooden vinyl brush rested sideways on the lower cabinet shelf, shedding a solitary camel-hair bristle across the dark lacquer. It sat curled at an awkward forty-five degrees, marring the timber's polished plane. I stepped in with a silent, sliding glide, halting inches from the stray thread. Dropping into an unbroken, low lean, I balanced firmly on the balls of my shoes. With the flat tip of my index finger, I rolled the bristle against the wood until it was completely straight, then nudged it flush alongside the brush's walnut handle. Clean lines reclaimed. I adjusted my cuffs in quiet satisfaction.