Turning the Glass Ada Wong

A miniature brass hourglass hung suspended in an ornate swiveling gimbal near the counter edge, its deep crimson sand long settled in the base. Slipping beneath its curved bronze arch, I hooked the upper finial with the heel of my boot. With a crisp, fluid pivot, I sent the glass ampoule into a flawless one-hundred-and-eighty-degree rotation. The brass bearings hissed softly as the frame locked into place, sending a razor-thin filament of garnet grains streaming into the empty bottom bulb. Resting my shoulder against the spiraled brass pillar to watch the steady fall, I smiled. Setting the pace is always so much more satisfying than merely keeping up.