The Apron

At first it is almost too clean.

The leather lies flat. The surface is even. The brass still catches more light than it should.

That doesn't last.

One evening leaves a darker patch near the waist.

Another leaves the faint smell of smoke in the leather the following morning.

A thumb repeatedly reaches for the same place near the pocket.

Fat spits.

Ash lands and is brushed away with the back of a hand.

The apron begins folding differently when it is taken off.

Months later, it hangs near the door while another fire is being built.

The leather has softened across the stomach.

One corner is darker.

The brass has lost its shine.

Nobody remembers which evening put which mark there.

Good.

It has stopped looking new.

It has started looking right.

The fire isn't lit yet.