A Calculated Angle

My route took me up the dark oak leg of the study desk. An open spiral sketchbook lay beside a brass desk lamp. As I stepped onto the page, the heavy metal clip of a vintage fountain pen tilted and tapped against the paper with a sharp clink. A miscalculation? Inconceivable. I smoothly turned the sudden vibration into an intentional, contemplative stance, resting one plush elbow directly across the pen barrel. Beneath my foot, an ivory rubber eraser slid a fraction of an inch into place, anchoring my weight. From here, the morning sun illuminates the ink strokes perfectly.