The Amber Curve

I slipped back under the front door and shook the cool dusk from my feet. On the low wooden ledge of the shoe bench rested a pair of folded tortoiseshell glasses. I paused, nudging the curved temple arm with the tip of my nose. It shifted with a quiet, hollow clink against the oak grain, then held firm. Moving with slow, steady steps, I climbed up the smooth arched arm. All four feet found their footing along the amber acetate. Right ahead, the circular lens caught the hallway lamp, bending the light into a soft golden ring. I rested my chin against the polished frame, watching the room settle into evening.