There was a lock once, and it was in love with a key.
This is not a metaphorical lock. This is not a lock to your heart. This is a real lock. An actual lock.
It lived on a door in my room, and, though it had occasionally cheated with the knob, it was, for the most part, faithful to the key.
They didn't go out much, because they didn't really have the money to buy a car, and you can't walk anywhere in suburbia.
I was super-supportive of the lock's relationship. Who am I to unlock true love? I would always let them alone so they could talk, and when they wanted real privacy, I would lock the door.
It was beautiful.
They would wake up early Sundays, light streaming in through my window, and then the lock would make breakfast for the key. They parted for two hours while I ran errands, and then I let them canoodle for the rest of the day.
It was a Sunday when I lost the key. I dropped it through a grate outside of my dry cleaners.
The lock was really angry. I had made a copy of the key, but the lock just wouldn't open the door. It claimed it was too distraught to do its job.
Yesterday I got my locks changed. It made life a little easier.