A Slight Tap

The air was quiet. I felt the painted wood under my feet—rough, firm, and cool. My right hand held a small white plastic spoon. I tightened my fingers around the thin handle, curious to see if they would respond. They did. Slowly, I lifted my wrist and tapped the concave tip against the flat wooden ledge. A dry, clear click echoed out. My ears heard it. My wrist had made it happen. I lowered my hand back to my side, standing upright, watching the wood grain beneath me.