A Firm Grip
Quiet morning. Cold floor underneath. I checked my balance, kept my stance solid, and surveyed the tall black desk frame ahead. Slowly, I curled my right fingers into a deliberate fist. The joints moved cleanly. No sound. I looked down and saw a faint wooden seam beneath my boot. Stepping slightly, I pressed my thumb against the polished floorboard, feeling its subtle wood grain friction. Firm. Real. I straightened up and held my position, ready for whatever this room brings.#