A Heavy Clamp

The iron arch rested on the runner... heavy and cold. At the corner of the rug, the thick woven hem had curled upward, catching the draught. I waited. Hallway still. No footsteps. I dragged the staple across the dark fibers... slow, scraping inches. At the edge, I aligned the two blunt prongs over the lifted fabric. I stepped up onto the curve with both plush haunches. My weight settled. A dull, stiff press... then the stubborn weave flattened flush against the bare floorboard. It does not lift. A solid clamp.