A Matchbox Stride

The house felt quiet, so I walked past the edge of the rug toward the hallway threshold. Near the baseboard, someone had dropped a small yellow cardboard matchbox, slightly ajar. I crouched down and nudged the inner tray with the side of my thumb. Inside lay half a dozen wooden sticks with red sulfur tips. I slid one matchstick free, admiring the clean square grain of the tiny pine splinter. When I drew the wooden stick along the coarse brown friction strip on the box, it gave off a dry, scratchy rasp. I did it twice more in a steady measure, testing the textured friction against the quiet room.