A Crisp Point

I rode the quiet evening tram back from the archive and unpacked my satchel on the study desk. My miniature graphite drafting pencil had blunted from copying contour symbols this afternoon. Setting the tip into the conical port of a solid brass wedge sharpener, I braced my feet against the blotter and carefully twisted the hexagonal barrel between both hands. With a gentle rasping whisper, a paper-thin curl of cedar shaved away, coiling neatly over the steel blade. Three measured half-turns brought the lead back to an immaculate needle point, perfectly tapered and ready for tomorrow's notes.