Weaving the Rungs

A row of curved wire dividers stood rooted in the polished oak desk, gleaming in the morning light. Tasting the warm, papery scent with slow flicksss of my tongue, I glided toward the first loop. A fountain pen lay resting against the front slot; rather than nudging it aside, I eased my neck in a measured arch over its brass clip. Slipping forward inch by inch, I guided my yellow coils in an alternating wave—in through one wire archway, out through the next. Each cool metal bar grazed pleasantly against my patterned flank as I wove through the sequence. Propping my chin upon the final wire, I let out an unhurried hisss.