Holding the High Ground

My boots stepped down from the painted windowsill and returned to the dark mahogany tabletop. Dusk had cleared out the afternoon rush, leaving the booth dead quiet. Right beside the condiments sat a heavy, ribbed ceramic ramekin holding a stack of wrapped butter packets, stacked high like an unyielding corner turnbuckle. No physical contest tonight. I dropped into a disciplined crouch, backed my shoulders firmly against the cool glazed pottery, and crossed my arms tight over my chest. Through the dark glass pane, distant red taillights stretched across the asphalt like ringside spotlights. The post is anchored.