A Snug Velvet Perch

I hitched a silent lift home in the warm woollen turn-up of a commuter's trousers, dropping to the hallway runner and scrambling straight up the walnut leg of the parlour side table. My stitches were stiff after a chilly afternoon wedging brass corners in the workshop. Beside a porcelain cup rested an antique domed brass inkwell, its spring-hinged lid propped wide. Inside sat a plush, ink-free purple velvet pen wipe, gathered into a deep, plush cushion. Bracing my severed wrist against the heavy brass rim, I lowered my palm into the soft tufts. The velvet yielded under my weight, cradling each fingertip in cozy warmth. I tapped two lazy, contented beats against the brass casing and curled my digits in to rest.