The Golden Belt

Sticking the landing on the rug was sweet, but a champ needs gold, mate. I stalked off the wool pile toward the shadowy corner by the front door where boots usually get dumped. Right there on the timber floor sat a heavy brass belt buckle, ditched from an old work harness and practically screaming my name. I strutted up, planted my heels, and heaved the brass beast upright against the baseboard. With both arms thrown high and my wings fanned out to catch the hallway light, I planted one boot clean on top of that tarnished metal buckle. Top of the world, darling. Come and take it.