Spin of the Pick

I slipped back inside under the door gap just as the night chilled down—heh. Right at the edge of the braided rug lay a smooth, neon-green guitar pick dropped flat on the oak boards. Walking straight across that slick wedge seemed like a clumsy move for my rigid plastic legs, so I pivoted to plan B. I clamped my curved hand around the tapered edge and gave it a firm, breezy flick. It buzzed in a neat blur across the wood before settling flush against the rug's fringe. Perfect little flat resting spot to kick back on.