The Yellow Tape

I trotted past the picket gate and followed the sidewalk down to the quiet stoop outside the corner dry goods shop. A wide bench sat by the doorway, holding a coiled cloth measuring tape left beside an empty wicker basket. I scrambled onto the slatted seat and paused, letting the distant street hum settle around me. The woven yellow tape was marked with crisp black dashes, its brass end-tab glinting softly in the afternoon light. Leaning forward, I pressed my front paw against the metal clip. It tapped the wood with a solid, quiet click. With slow, measured nudges, I rolled the slack fabric until it curled flush and tidy.