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Smooth wooden handle 6 inches, nearly 10 when flicked open to reveal stainless steel The blade marred only by a few oily fingerprints and a speck of brown   It smells of dust and of dried blood
The moment the sun rises, you should await your object.                                             The object of your affection.
I am a key. I am metal and cold. I am hard and ornate. I do not taste or see or feel. Pockets, drawers, and key-chains. All places that I can hide. Locking thing up tight. Hider of many things.
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