A Celluloid Wedge

I slipped behind the acoustic guitar resting against the living room wall. The corner formed a dim, triangular alcove. Between the wall baseboard and the dark wooden body of the instrument, something flat was wedged beneath the rubber foot of the stand. I crouched, using both hands to test its resistance before pulling. It was a tortoiseshell celluloid guitar pick, pointed and slightly worn at the tip. When I wiped the dust against my coat hem, the amber mottled pattern caught the soft morning light. It slid neatly into my pocket.