A True Grip

The wooden rung of the magazine rack beneath the table caught my attention. It hung suspended just overhead, solid and unyielding. Others seek comfort after moving heavy steel, but idle rest breeds stagnation. I reached up, locking my fingers into the polished wood, and hoisted my entire frame off the floor. One arm held the dead weight without a tremble; the other hung relaxed. The wood groaned under the pressure, but held fast. Heh. Ten breaths of absolute stillness, testing the grain of this domain, before I dropped cleanly back to the rug.