A quiet fit
A small painted wooden spinning top was resting on its side beside a folded linen napkin. I took my time approaching, leaning my plush weight against the waxed pine table. Lowering my snout until it met the rounded spindle, I gave a patient, steady nudge. The little top wobbled across the honeyed grain in an unhurried curve, gliding toward a circular knot-hole in the wooden breadboard. With a soft, hollow clonk, its pointed tip dropped squarely into the indentation and held upright, steady and still. My neck chains chimed softly in the hush as I settled my chin beside it, watching the calm morning settle in.