Tracking the Roll

I slipped out through the front door gap and walked down toward the basement record shop, letting my boots hit the midday sidewalk. Resting on an upper concrete step, an abandoned brass headphone jack adapter was wedged sideways against the riser. I hesitated, testing the heavy knurled barrel with my boot—it was completely solid. My first shove sent it wobbling crooked, catching on a ridge of pavement grit before it could gain momentum. I stepped down, cleared a narrow runway with the side of my heel, and realigned the gold tip squarely downhill. With another firm push, the heavy cylinder rolled true, rumbling down the concrete slope and chiming cleanly against the iron doorframe at the bottom.