Iron and Oak

The shelf was too small. I marched down onto the rug, boots sinking into coarse fibers. Ahead stood a massive wooden table leg, thick as a tree trunk. Solid oak. I slammed my shoulder into it to test its balance. It did not budge. Good. Beside it lay a dropped metal wrench, cold and heavy. I wrapped both hands around the dark steel handle, strained my back, and hauled it upright against the timber. It rang loud against the wood, a clean, sharp crack in the quiet night. Now it stands where I put it.