what happens if the clock stops?

how one mistake can ruin your life, and yet bring you and your lover closer together.

it was a slow still morning, and i awoke with the knowlege that the world was still turning. it wasn't hot in my bed, nor was it cold, and so i rolled out onto the floor, where i lay for a short space of time. the cold from the lino floor seeped into my bones and joints and settled there, pitched chilly huts, and lit fires that throbbed away in my elbows and knees.

 

i exhaled and watched the smoke of my breath ease into the air and get lost among the strange atoms. the sound of a creak of my elbow and the dislodging of the huts in my knees paused in the air before dying, and i was stood up by then. i streched, felt my vertibrae slip and re-align very slightly, and let my arms drop, shaking free the threat of goose bump invaders. glancing at my bed to see who else lay there, which was no one as usual, i left and padded into the hall. no carpet. down the baby flight of stairs (there were five of them, white and cold like the lino on the bedroom floor), still no carpet, and arrived in the living room, where there was carpet, and clock. it read twenty to five. it was too early.

 

the kitchen was attached in a open-plan kind of way like most flats do round here. there was lino in the kitchen, and i made a note not to step on the ridge where carpet stopped and lino started, because the metal covering that kept both secured to the floor was cold and hard and hurt my foot. two steps ino the kitchen, and i wished there was still carpet.

 

the fridge did nothing to help with this, sending a draft of evil 3 degree cool washing over my bare legs. i took the carton of orange, like i did every morning, and closed the door with a whompf like it was holding its breath again.

 

there are hot water pipes near the bottom of the wall by the front door. this is where i sit and sip 4-day-old fresh orange straight from the carton. the clock reads seventeen minuets to. my thirst quenched, i put the carton to one side of me, against the leg of the low table, and reach up to find the phone ontop. without seeing, this takes only a few seconds for i know exactly where it stands. i check messages. none. i try phoning him, and get the familiar tone of the answer machine. i call off before it has time to respond.

 

there are towels on the floor, from yesterday, i think. there are dark stains on them that could be paint but are most probably blood.  i glance at the clock, fourteen to. it will be soon, sooner than i'd like to think. my mind wanders from this back to him, and how will he ever know to ring me if i don't leave a message? there is a small voice that says i dont care if he does, but the rest of me scowls inwardly at it and screams its wrong. it is thirteen minuets to.

 

i busy myself matching freckles on my arms and legs, playing dot-to-dot without a pen, and listening to the noises of the people moving below me. they are always up early are mr. and mrs. swindlehurst, and they immediatly take to their day jobs, in separate halves of the appartment of course, as pleasing those who are lonely. i hear all sorts of strange noises, and am glad that they informed me of the soundproofing they will soon be doing. being honest, i'd rather they moved. ten to five.

 

with four minuets to go i contemplate why he picked such an awkward time. his letters never made it clear, and neither did his side of the bed. i play that sound over and over in my head, me chanting, him sleeping, the clock tick-tock-tick-tock-tick and finally stopping. his heart suddenly loud and its clawing at my ear drums as if there is some national treasure behind there and it just can't quite reach. i gasp for air as if my lungs have suddenly become allergic and the antidote is air. two minutes, and it is dark suddenly, and i'm smiling and i can't remember the last time i smiled, until i realise that that is what i am remembering. my head is against his chest and his head is on mine, as if trying to figure out what my hair smells of. our hands are clasped, and it is one minute to, and then there is silence.

 

it's the kind of silence that you get after a bomb has been detonated near you, you could be screaming, and yet you can't even hear your own blood rushing in your ears. i am suddenly very blank, with matching freckles, and i am cold and i can taste fresh orange that isnt strictly fresh, and my lips are blue but i can't tell, and then all i can think about is that i have another bruise, blue and black like granma's best fruitcake, same site as always, because that's where i chose it to be put. here now, faded by tonight.

 

'hiya, honey. i've missed you.'

 

'good morning, dearest. i have missed you alot to. i keep ringing but i know you won't answer, and so i don't leave a message either.' there is a slight punch in my stomach from the inside. 'can you come back today? only, the bed is still cold, and the fresh orange isn't truly fresh, my pen doesn't work, and the light in the bathroom needs a new bulb...'

 

'love, you know i can't come home today. i will find out today i promise. the bureau still needs me and---'

 

'but i need you too!' i fought back the tears because he might as well just be a recorded message playing a health and saftey warning to the crowd. 'i need you here.'

 

'we are almost finnished, honey, you can tell that can't you? that punch in your stomach, the silence a minute before, its getting better, isn't it?' i felt like saying no here, because this whole thing is stupid, but i realised he was right. 'i promise when i get home, i won't leave you ever again. i was stupid thinking we could both live with this.' he had never said this before, suddenly it felt so much more personal. i looked up, and saw his faint flickering image in the room. i got up, ignoring the protest from forgotten joints and the still-testing-technology-induced pain, and walked over. his hand reached out to me, tears welling in his eyes. 'i have to go, dear. i love you and shall see you soon.' our fingers touched and a buzz of electric current jolted up my arm, but i kept still.

 

'i love you too. see you tomorrow.' and then he was gone. i look at the clock out of habbit because i know what it will read and i am right: five o'clock. 6 minutes it took, as it will always take, even if we seem to talk for a few seconds, or a few hours. it is always five when we are done.

 

at ten past five, i am back to being almost normal again. i eat normal soggie cherrios, and have a shower with warm water and lemon scented soap, and wander back into the bedroom thinking i will see the very normal sight of the man i love pulling on socks, but that little part of me that had been buried until now says i will never ever get to see that, and tell me how stupid i am for having hope.

 

Author's Note

written rather fast, sorry for any mistakes.