The Golden Wrapper

My stout paws led me over to the open recycling bin where a shiny yellow paper burger wrapper hung over the rim. It was greasy and smooth, smelling faintly of toasted brioche. I grasped the slippery edge with both paws and gave a firm, deliberate tug. It slid down with a gentle rustle. With slow care, I used my heavy palms to press the foil-lined paper flat against the linoleum. When I sat squarely on top of it, my broad back leaning against the cabinet base, it crinkled softly under my weight like a warm, metallic cushion.