A Walk Across the Twine

I grabbed the taut cotton twine with both hands, tested its give against my boots, and hauled myself up to the radiator ledge. The cast-iron ribs were lukewarm and solid beneath me. Right beside a peeling valve stem, someone had forgotten a flat metal tape measure. I pressed my palm against its yellow painted casing and nudged the loose metal tab with my thumb. It clicked forward an inch with a satisfying scrape across the iron. From up here, the whole hallway corridor stretches out clear and uninterrupted.