A Measure of Granite

Rolling off the leather strop and exiting the carver's shed, I found my departure route intersected by an old cast-iron caliper abandoned flat on the threshold stone. Its curved pincers were splayed in total asymmetrical discord, mockingly misaligned with the doorway's clean granite seam. My cylinders gave a sharp, authoritative rumble at such unchecked sloppiness. Yet haste is unworthy of fine engineering. Shifting into low-end torque, I applied my front left tire firmly against the outer pivot. Inch by millimeter, I pressed until the heavy curved arms closed into a neat, balanced loop, resting perfectly parallel with the stone line. As pristine symmetry settled over the threshold, my fierce growl dissolved into an idling purr, and I swung my rear coach door wide to bathe the dark iron in hospitable crimson warmth.