The Second The Clock Strikes Five
One in a line of many, clutching phones, staring into the dank and distant void of the town. 17:12. I'm early. That's OK. It's not my fault, I'll blame the bus being early. Shit, I really need the bathroom. No, no, no - what if he's coming? I can't disappear into the store. Plus, they're for customers only, and I can't even afford to look at the items in that store, let alone actually purchase one. I'll have to hold on. 17:13. I'm alone, and in this town, you can witness a mass exodus the second the clock strikes five; suits and aprons, buttoned up against the driving, gritty rain, power-walking to the underpass and their exit. You can watch as the night-people come out of the shadows, hounding a lost stranger, tapping shoulders and pushing into faces, the second the clock strikes five. It used to be a joke, but standing here I truly believe that every joke is derived from a truth.
17:15. There's a group in front of me, pierced and cloaked and noisy; could he be one of them? A gentleman in a patched parka walks past, too close for comfort. Prickles on my neck that aren't from the elements. I need a cigarette and I don't even smoke. Something to do with my hands, besides endlessly checking the minute digits creeping round the clock. I said about 17:15. About. There's flexibility in that. The phone starts to vibrate in my glove. Don't look at the name, that only tempts fate. I answer, but obviously something else offered fate something it couldn't refuse. It's not him. My voice is cheerful, my eyes are stinging, the familiar voice on the end of the line offers nothing but an undertone of condescention. Everything is fine. I said about.
One by one, my companions leave, partnered off or given up, they have other places to be. For the next ninety minutes, I do not. In an alternate reality we meet and it is perfect. I see him coming, and we brush lips to cheeks. He takes my gloved hand and we wander through the town; no one stares, no one approaches, it's just him and me. We don't even need to talk. In this reality, I talk to myself. Whisper. A mantra pours from my lips smoothly, as if I've done this before. Of course, I have. Once. Please, let it be OK. Please, let him come. Please, let everything be OK. There's no answer to the ringing tone. Once, twice, three times unanswered. 17:28. The glass is cool against my forehead, sending a shiver down the hunched curvature of my spine. No one taps my shoulder, no one smiles embarrassedly. No one, except me, as I wander back to the bus stop. A fire engine passes, sirens wailing. An ambulance follows suit. He could be dead. There's always that.
17:15. There's a group in front of me, pierced and cloaked and noisy; could he be one of them? A gentleman in a patched parka walks past, too close for comfort. Prickles on my neck that aren't from the elements. I need a cigarette and I don't even smoke. Something to do with my hands, besides endlessly checking the minute digits creeping round the clock. I said about 17:15. About. There's flexibility in that. The phone starts to vibrate in my glove. Don't look at the name, that only tempts fate. I answer, but obviously something else offered fate something it couldn't refuse. It's not him. My voice is cheerful, my eyes are stinging, the familiar voice on the end of the line offers nothing but an undertone of condescention. Everything is fine. I said about.
One by one, my companions leave, partnered off or given up, they have other places to be. For the next ninety minutes, I do not. In an alternate reality we meet and it is perfect. I see him coming, and we brush lips to cheeks. He takes my gloved hand and we wander through the town; no one stares, no one approaches, it's just him and me. We don't even need to talk. In this reality, I talk to myself. Whisper. A mantra pours from my lips smoothly, as if I've done this before. Of course, I have. Once. Please, let it be OK. Please, let him come. Please, let everything be OK. There's no answer to the ringing tone. Once, twice, three times unanswered. 17:28. The glass is cool against my forehead, sending a shiver down the hunched curvature of my spine. No one taps my shoulder, no one smiles embarrassedly. No one, except me, as I wander back to the bus stop. A fire engine passes, sirens wailing. An ambulance follows suit. He could be dead. There's always that.
posted by Gutterflower at 3:36 PM
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