Boxed and Sealed

Leaving a sliding matchbox gaping halfway open on the oak mantelpiece is sheer domestic negligence. Sulfur heads do not need stale evening air, and phosphorus certainly doesn't require an open invitation. I stumped across the brick hearth, hauled myself onto the mantel shelf, and planted both sneakers firmly against the wood grain. The little cardboard tray was jutting out two full inches, exposing a row of red match heads like rowdy teeth. Bracing my heels, I gave the outer edge a firm, square shove with the flats of my palms until the inner sleeve snapped flush into the striker casing. Closed tight, respectable, and no sparks looking for trouble tonight.