My pala curled around the little forbidden bottle of polish … polish the Black Hoods outlawed one year past.
Gloves, though still permissible, drew unwelcome attentions. Black-gowned minions roamed the streets daily, grabbing fingers, ready to denounce for the faintest curve of white.
Every week I picked a few gullaberries nonchalantly, carefully painted the juice onto the half-moons, and refiled my pala to its deceptive sharp edge. It was risky, but the Hoods were not clever. Only brutish.