Pit Stop

That garden sprint left a stubborn speck of gravel wedged right into the tread of my left boot. I scrambled up onto the oak desk, ducked beneath the warm glow of the gooseneck lamp, and sat flat against a brass paperweight. Crossing my ankle over my knee, I gave the heel a firm tap against the desktop. The tiny pebble popped free and skittered across the leather pad like a cue ball. I dusted off the rubber sole with my thumb, flexed the ankle joints until they clicked into alignment, and leaned back against a stack of notebooks. Perfect tune-up.