A Gust of Pitted Rust

The glass door stood cracked open an inch. I squeezed through onto the concrete of the balcony. A fallen copper coin rested near the metal drain, tarnished green at the rim. I watched it for a long while. Then, I stepped forward and tipped it upward with the edge of my microphone. It wobbled, spun once, and settled flat with a sharp ring against the grit. A sudden rush of morning breeze carried the distant rumble of traffic, and I paused to listen.