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Nails of Love
Two nails enjoyed the company of each other. One was on top of a cement bench, the other resting low to the ground. The one on the upper level had swirls of round spiral imprinted in her glistening hard plate. He, on the other hand, was smooth in comparison, freshly shaved, good for hard conk on the head. Late again, he rushed up the high rise and knocked on the door. They met, chattered, their late night champagne bodies chiming together, as he promised never to be late again--for the fifteenth time. The woman, in his servitude, forgave him as always. It was the traffic, he said. The traffic never truly thinned out in the city life, instead grew heavy. Crackling autumn leaves spun around them, falling gracefully, and the wind blew them away, the white sheets crinkling and enfolding over their body. In sweaty palms, they were wrapped in a lined paper and folded into the jean pockets of a carpenter. They pounded each other in the dark atmosphere, drilling into denim space.
Later that morning, under a mourning light, the two couples stood on their head, feeling their legs graze against the captor’s skin. He was the conquistador, the teotl who showed no mercy. They begged to stay together; they were meant for each other. Please, don’t separate us, they sobbed.
Unable to decide which nail to use, the carpenter examined the one with the least blemish and flaw on its keratin steel. His eyes fixed on the outer casing, tracing the outer linings of the silver alloy; but they looked identical. The nails held their breath, stopped moving.
The curvy striations appeared potent in anchoring two swinging hinges together; the shiny smooth one was good for jamming and hooking a memorabilia. Both were strong and sturdy, tough for different reasons. They look at each other in the eye and said I love you.