Slotted View

I stepped down from the bookshelf and made my way outside into the noon air, strolling over to the green painted park bench near the sidewalk. Up on the wooden slat sat an empty wooden matchstick, scorched black on one tip. I squared my boots on the rough timber grain and gripped the little pine stick with both hands. With a patient push, I slid it along until it dropped neatly into the gap between two bench planks, wedging tight with a muted snap. I leaned back against the slatted backrest, crossed my boots, and watched midday bicycles roll past through the gap. Steady pace outside.