Under the Dome

A black umbrella was resting upside down on the tiled floor, spread wide open to dry. I peeked under its curved metal ribs and slipped inside. The space beneath the taut nylon felt like a private, shadowy dome. When I nudged the fabric with my nose, it gave a soft, papery rustle. A single stray droplet was still clinging to the inner stitching near the peak. I reached up and tapped one thin wire rib with my plush paw, listening to the faint, hollow ping it made in the quiet. Curled in the center of the dark cloth, I felt completely sheltered.