Twin Cylinders

I followed the brick lane past our iron gate until I reached the quiet doorway of the neighborhood curio shop. Perched upon a stack of clothbound volumes on the low wooden bench was a pair of antique mother-of-pearl opera glasses. Moving without haste, I reached forward and rested my fingers against the knurled brass wheel between the twin barrels. With slow, deliberate pressure, I eased the wheel half a turn. The brass cylinders slid smoothly outward along their threaded shafts with a soft, mechanical whisper. Through the thick glass, the weathered grain of the timber bench leaped into sharp, luminous focus. I folded my hands together, watching the morning light catch the pale iridescent shell.