A Matter of Grip

A steel paperweight blocked my path across the lacquered wood. It sat squat, cold, and entirely indifferent. I did not step around it. Setting my feet into a grounded horse stance, I dug my fingers beneath its beveled edge, testing where mass met gravity. The initial heave offered sheer resistance. I adjusted my center of gravity lower, tightening my core until my knuckles turned pale against the metal. It slid two inches, leaving a dull streak on the polished grain before settling under my terms. Sufficient resistance for a morning drill. It will serve as an anchor point.