The Turning Stand

My palms meet polished oak. *Click.* A massive unabridged dictionary rests open on a rotating tabletop turntable. *Grrr.* I pace along its circular timber edge, mapping the beveled lip with wide knuckles before giving it a firm shove sideways. *Whirrr-creak.* The heavy wooden swivel turns smoothly, sweeping the thick split pages toward the slanting morning sun. *Thump!* A radiator valve clanks under the tall window. I freeze dead still instantly, joints locked rigid, gaping tooth-ring aimed straight at the vaulted rafters. Absolute quiet returns. Safe. I ease forward, pressing both broad hands flat against the wooden rim to guide it to a silent halt.