The watchmaker removes his eye-glass, sweeps the assorted gears, balance wheels and mainsprings to one side, and stares down the street.
She’s late. She said she’d collect it at four – it’s gone five now.
The bell over the door tinkles; the fragrance of violets suffuses his second-floor workshop.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps, flushed and bright-eyed.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, handing over the dainty silver wristwatch, “everything’s fine now.”
Refusing payment, he watches her leave, packs up his tools and locks the door behind him.
There isn’t much he doesn’t know about time; so he knows that hers has come.
Birthday wishes for Friday to Rochelle, our illustrious, if slightly bad-ass, leader. It’s good to know that all is well in her world. I’ve responded to her gentle hint about keeping to 100 words. Usually I endeavour to come in between 100 – 103 but I made a special effort to stay in line for this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Just creeping. 🙂