Night Needle Check

I slipped back inside under the door as night settled in, heading straight for the wooden credenza where the turntable sits. Resting on the dark veneer near the tonearm was a small square of black velvet glued to a block of cork—an old stylus cleaner left out in the open. I climbed up by the power cord, knelt down, and pulled my brass-bristle brush from my belt. With a slow, steady sweep across the velvet nap, I cleared away a stray speck of gray grit until the surface lay clean and plush. I propped my brass slide upright against the cork edge, kicked my boots out onto the polished wood, and let the quiet room settle around me.