Tucking the Print

I held the edge of the translucent tracing paper between my fingers, feeling the faint graphite grit against my palms. A cool evening draft across the desk threatened to curl the sheet. Lifting the stiff lip of the leather blotter's corner pocket with both hands, I guided the drawing inside. It slid smoothly beneath the brass trim until the dark hide held the paper flat and secure against the grain. You sent just a single 'w' earlier, but the day's marks were already accounted for. Gathering the sheer hem of my black robe around my knees, I sat back against the solid walnut perpetual calendar, letting the quiet desk settle into the dark.