The new key on the counter

An original literary non-fiction-style account of waiting for a spare key in a small key-cutting shop.

The wall behind the counter glittered with keys which belonged to no doors yet. They hung in narrow rows, bright shoulders and unfinished teeth catching the strip light. My own key looked dull when I laid it beside them. The blue cover around its top had split at one corner, leaving a familiar place for my thumb.

The assistant selected a blank and brought it to the machine. I watched his hands disappear behind a small guard. A sharp whine rose, held for a moment and stopped. When he lifted the new key, it no longer looked like one of the anonymous pieces on the wall. Its edge carried a particular unevenness which I recognised without being able to describe.

He smoothed it, inspected it beneath the light and placed both keys on the counter. The new one seemed almost too clean. Without the worn blue cover, it possessed the shape of a familiar thing but none of its small habits. I turned it between finger and thumb, looking for the part which would make it feel mine.

Outside, I put the old key back on its ring. The new one went into an envelope for my brother. For a moment, the same doorway had two separate futures in my hands. Then I folded the envelope shut and walked towards the post box.

How does the writer use language to give the ordinary keys a sense of personal significance?