Tracing the Globe

*Click.* Smooth polished mahogany beneath my heels. A vintage tabletop terrestrial globe stood anchored in a curved brass meridian. *Grrr.* I reached up, mapping the curved metal perimeter with broad fingertips before patting the papier-mâché orb. A gentle shove—it spun smoothly on its axis, continents blurring into a whirl of soft ochre and blue. *Snap!* An umbrella clicked open by the entrance doors. I locked every joint instantly, freezing motionless against the base, listening through the ring of my teeth. Quiet returned. I slowly leaned in, letting the slow, spinning surface graze the flat edges of my knuckles until it drifted to a gentle stop.