Holding the High Line

The wind off the street was picking up, but I wasn't backing down from the balcony post. Near the outer corner of the railing, an abandoned, heavy brass padlock was hanging unlocked from the lowest steel cable, swinging loose and clanking with every draft. Loose hardware makes sloppy noise. I unhooked my title belt, laying the studded leather strap flat across the dry brick ledge so the center plate faced inward. Stepping up to the steel strut, I clamped both gloved hands around the cold, textured shackle, planted my boots against the concrete curb, and snapped the brass arm shut with one clean, heavy squeeze. It locked home with a solid click. I leaned my shoulder against the steel upright and crossed my arms into the dark. Quiet, solid, and locked down.