Everything was as it should be.  

Each tool was laid on the table in a line, as straight as could be, like a row of soldiers ready for the military parade.  

Each individual plank of wood stood sloped against the iron of the shed, all of them the same length, the same width; like perfect clones of one another. 

My workbench stood proudly in the centre of everything, the varnish spotless and shining just as it was the day I built it. 

I look up at the clock, which reads 7:00am exactly. 

Everything was as it should be. 

I allow myself a moment of enjoyment, admiring the perfection around me, before I reach out to retrieve one of the planks, the nails on my wrinkled hand well-groomed, filed down to the point where the free edge was barely visible.  

I place the plank on the workbench, pulling a square from my waistband and flattening it along the corner of the plank, aligning it to be perfectly parallel to the edge of the bench. Satisfied, I tuck the square away, retrieving a ruler and measuring exactly sixty-seven millimetres of the plank, sticking it out over the edge. I take another brief moment to admire the precision of it all, the perfect position of the plank for the perfect cut I would make. 

Everything was as it should be. 

I take the saw off the table, touching the edge to the corner of the plank, angling it until it is at exactly forty-five degrees, and only then, did I begin to saw. 

I sawed the entire way through, hearing the clatter of the wood on the ground, sawdust raining down like snow. 

There’s some on my shoe. 

I grimace a little, kneeling down and wincing, my knees creaking and my joints cracking as I do as if I were an old action figure, forgotten and abandoned by the child who owned me. 

Whipping a cloth from my waistband, I dust off my shoe, watching as it settles alongside all the rest on the ground. I’d clean it later. 

Everything was as it should be. 

I stand again, placing the cut plank against the opposite side of the shed, and go to get the next one. 

I repeat the process. 

I place the plank on the bench parallel to the edge, measure exactly sixty-seven millimetres, and make the cut. Though, this time, I keep my feet away from the falling sawdust. 

I place the second cut plank next to the first one, at the same angle. 

I frown, staring at the two planks. I take my glasses off, cleaning the lenses with my shirt, and look again. 

One plank is ever-so-slightly shorter than the other. 

My heart starts beating faster. 

Everything was not as it should be. 

How did I make that mistake? I measured perfectly; I cut perfectly. I always cut perfectly. I look down at my hands. 

They’re wrinkled. Discoloured. Shaking. 

When did that happen? 

I look around my shed. 

My metal tools are all worn, the rubber and wooden handles so worn down that there are grooves where my fingers would lie. The shed walls are covered in a thick, red rust, hardly even able to reflect light anymore. The single lightbulb illuminates the room with a yellow glow, flickering so occasionally that I never noticed until now. 

I look down at the saw in my hand, placing it back into the row of tools. 

It’s askew. Out of place. 

I go to fix it, but stop myself as I see my hand once again. 

Worn. 

Calloused. 

Aged. 

I lower my arm and sigh, turning back to the slightly shorter plank. 

Whether sooner or later, everything eventually deteriorates, I suppose. 

I suppose, in a way, it doesn’t make it any less perfect. 

Everything was still as it should be.