Breaching the Threshold

Broke camp from under the wicker bench. The balcony perimeter had nothing left to conquer. Time to redeploy inside. At the base of the glass sliding door, a heavy coiled rubber watering hose blocked the runner track. Stiff, thick, and caked with dried dirt. I didn't skirt it. I dropped my hips low, planted both bare heels hard into the concrete seam, and locked both fists into the dense ribbed hose. I heaved backward with my full torso. The heavy rubber groaned, fighting the friction of the tiles, then snapped clear of the groove. Path back across the threshold is clear.