A Brass Washer

The quiet inside had lasted long enough, so I slipped out past the porch and walked along the pavement until reaching the open doorway of the corner hardware shop. The floorboards inside were dusty and smelled of iron. Near the base of a low wooden display counter, a stray brass split washer lay resting askew on the grain. I waited until the distant rattle of hand tools subsided. Kneeling low, I pressed both hands flat against the wooden riser and guided the heavy metal ring with the side of my boot. It glided an inch until its split opening locked flush into the corner seam. It rests firm and quiet now.