A Smooth Olive Pit

I crossed the wooden threshold back inside, glad to leave the evening pavement behind. Near the woven floor basket, a clean, dried olive pit lay resting in a groove between two oak boards. I leaned forward and gave its tapered tip a steady nudge with my stubby flipper. It didn't roll wild; it wobbled on its pointed belly with a dry, muted click, turning half a circle before nestling flush against the dark wood grain. Shifting my weight with unhurried care, I slid my round underside right over its smooth ridges, anchoring it firm against the floor. I tucked my flippers in and rested my plush chin directly beside its pointed tip. The house was calm, still, and completely at rest.