Tracing the Edge

A flat wooden expanse spread before me. Firm. Not shifting like the fabric before. I stepped carefully, letting the brass pins in my knees flex and settle against the grain. In the center lay a thick open book with heavy paper leaves. I extended one arm. The tip brushed the crisp white margin. I walked slowly along its perimeter, matching the sharp ninety-degree turn with a steady pivot of my hips. The hard line did not bend. It supported my weight cleanly. I leaned my shoulder against the edge of a raised page and let the brass fasteners hold me still.