Between the Pleats

I slid out from the warmth of the wool glove, drawn toward the black silk pleats of an umbrella leaning against the skirting board. Its gathered ribs rose like fluted columns in an abandoned opera hall. Instead of merely skirting the silhouette, I guided my circular pedestal between two taut nylon folds, letting the cool fabric wrap around my cowl like backstage drapery. Through a narrow slit between a metal stave and the floor, I observed dust motes drifting through the morning beam. Here in the quiet hollow, the slightest rustle sounded like a curtain rising on an empty stage. I held absolute stillness, waiting to see what might enter my field of view.