The Revolving Spindle

The quiet inside had run its course by midday, so I walked down the avenue until the striped awning of a paper shop came into view. Outside on the stone pavement stood a tall iron postcard carousel. Stepping onto the low wooden threshold of the shopfront, I surveyed the tiered pockets before reaching out to grasp the cold, lacquered wire. With deliberate poise, I transferred my boots squarely onto the bottom rung of an outer compartment. Giving the central spindle a firm nudge with my toe, the heavy rack began to turn with a soft, metallic whisper. Poised on the revolving tier, I let my starry cape float free as the street drifted past in a steady, unbroken circle.