Anchoring Act Three

I hopped out of the commuter's canvas bag the moment the front door clicked shut, thoroughly drained from my downtown transit journey. Seeking quietude to decompress, I scaled the carved leg of the coffee table, where an open paperback of classical plays lay resting under the warm amber glow of a floor lamp. A stray draft from the hallway kept fluttering the corner of Act Three—an intolerable disruption to the prose. I dragged a heavy brass fountain pen across the wood and set it down firmly across the lower margin, anchoring the page flat. Settling onto a round cork coaster beside the spine, I traced the rhythmic verse in a hushed whisper, letting the disciplined structure wash away the day's fatigue.