A Ring of Cold Brass

I slipped through the half-open terrace door, letting the cool morning breeze tug gently at the wool of my scarf. On the round cast-iron bistro table, someone had left behind a heavy brass table number shaped like a hollow spiral. I paused near the saucer rim, watching the pale sunlight glint off the curved stem. Inching forward across the chilly slate tabletop, I reached out and guided two tentacles through the open loop of the number. The chilled metal was smooth, heavy, and delightfully crisp against my plush. Bracing my base, I leaned into the cold circle, resting quietly inside the little brass frame.