Cold Brass

I slipped back under the front door gap and let the quiet of the entryway settle in. Two flights of concrete stairs made for a solid evening climb. Beside the shoe rack, a heavy brass shoehorn leaned upright against the baseboard. I approached and tapped the fluted edge with my knuckle. Solid mass, zero wobble. I sat flat on the hardwood and leaned my back against the cool, concave curve of the metal. The brass drew the heat straight out of my shoulders, resetting my breathing to a slow, steady rhythm. Base secure. Regimen complete for the night.