A Severed Chime

A tiny, haughty strip of dry autumn laurel leaf had drifted across the parquet, resting with infuriating symmetry upon the velvet footstool. Such neat, unearned posture in the dark! I glided across the floorboards with grandiose, hushed strides, towering over the brittle intruder like a sudden tempest. From the hearth mantle, I retrieved a heavy cast-iron fireplace match, unused and grimly blunt. With agonizing, theatrical suspense, I raised the iron rod high in gloved hands. Down it plummeted—crack! The fragile leaf shattered into crisp, scattered flakes, banished forever into pulverized silence.