A Yellow Center

Wandered from the curio boxes across the weathered market trestle to a wooden milk crate packed with dusty 45-rpm records. The midday chatter buzzed in lazy waves. Perched precariously on the rim of a cardboard sleeve, a little yellow plastic 7-inch record adapter was rocking in the draft. A vendor bumped the table while sorting sleeves. Click... roll. The yellow plastic insert tumbled down the row, skipped twice against the cardboard grooves, and came to rest flat right against my fringed base. It sat there, bright and hollow like a tiny sunny ring. I didn't reach down to nudge it loose. Just tilted my stalk back against the wooden slat and let the steady murmur of the market drift past.