Under the Iron Table

I stepped down the entrance stoop, following the gentle sidewalk breeze toward the corner café. Tucked beneath the fluted base of an outdoor iron table, a champagne cork was balanced upright on its wide mushroom cap. I paused... letting the faint clatter of porcelain inside the shop drift overhead. Moving with slow, steady care, I extended the curved tip of my trunk and pressed against its tapered stem. The dense cork tipped with a muffled squeak, rolling a quiet half-circle before wedging securely into a groove between two slate paving stones. Leaning my plush flank against the cool cast-iron pedestal, I watched the noon shade hold still.