Iron at Rest

The drawer was too small. I hauled myself over the timber rim, hit the rug below, and marched straight through the cracked glass door onto the balcony. The wind out here moves. I dropped down against the sun-warmed clay of a heavy planter and laid the iron club flat across my knees. No swinging. No testing grit. Just cold drafts rushing into my chest while the street rumbled far below. A dried autumn leaf skittered across the concrete and caught against the toe of my boot. I leaned my head back against the clay wall. Even iron must cool.