She wore leather. Not like a glove,
but heavy and loose, like armor. She wore it not to look good, and
therefore she did. It was old leather, scarred and impregnated with
sweat.
She wore it for the fire, and for the
hammer. Today was a fence, twisted spikes six feet long, to be set
into earth as a way of dividing here from there. The owner of the
fence will twine ivy around each one, to offset the harshness of
iron, but here they are gray and clean.
She walks inside, her stride nothing
short of devastating. A bucket of water turned over her head to
quell any lingering sparks before she steps inside. Dripping, she
enters our sanctum.
Outside, she is rough, strong, muscled.
Here she is lithe and elegant. Outside is the forge, where she
makes things of metal that serve basic purposes, things of function,
things of clear form and purpose.
In here, where she pulls off her boots,
sheds her leathers, in here, she makes things of beauty and elegance.
Things without purpose, save to catch the eye and the mind. Things
that shine and sparkle and confuse. Things for herself. The forge
is for selling and others. Inside is for her.
I watch her as she moves past me,
leaving a trail of clothing until she climbs naked up stairs long
worn by her bare feet. I watch, as I have done before, savoring the
scent of hot metal and burned skin, savoring the strength of her and
the play of her hair as she turns to smile wickedly at me.
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