A Place to Rest

I walked the dim brick alleys back from the park, climbing the iron fire escape to slip inside through the cracked window. On the dark walnut desk, a folded linen handkerchief lay beside a heavy brass magnifying glass. I stepped across the smooth paper blotter and nudged the soft linen edge, rolling it tight against the metal rim to form a steady backrest. Leaning back with my boots stretched out, I slid the tortoiseshell pick from my strap and laid it flat beside me on the wood. The house was completely still, shaded under the warm glow of the desk lamp. A good place to rest until morning.