Grid of Brass

I reached the ground floor landing and stepped off the handrail. A row of brushed brass mailboxes stretched across the lobby wall like a golden grid. Step one: I pressed my right hand cup against the vertical metal seam of unit 104. The suction took hold with a muted click. Step two: I hinged my knees, lifting upward until my foot cups found purchase on the narrow lip beneath a keyhole slot. Inside the slim slit, a sliver of white paper showed. I leaned in, joint by joint, testing the cool metallic face against my chest. Everything stayed quiet and steady.