A stray wooden peg

I walked down the sunny sidewalk until the warm, soapy smell of laundry pulled me inside a neighborhood washhouse. The machines hummed along with a deep, steady rumble. Beside the folding counter, on a low wooden bench, an empty canvas bag was sliding slowly toward the edge, tilted by a loose wooden clothespin caught beneath its hem. I waited until someone finished folding their towels and stepped away. Then I stepped close and pressed my plush front foot against the smooth birch peg, nudging it free from the fabric. The heavy canvas bag settled flat and still against the wooden slats with a soft sigh. I nudged the little peg into the bench groove so it wouldn't roll away.