Tick Tock
by
Dawn Huddlestone
The man sees but can’t hear the satisfying tick of the second hand of the pocket watch that once belonged to his grandfather and which usually reminds him of what he doesn’t want to become, but he’s distracted by a pigeon that waddles into his peripheral vision, too close for comfort (because those things freak him out), and he kicks at it with one leather-clad leg, glancing up just in time to see a frowning smear of red lipstick rush around the corner in a yellow cab that flutters the skirt of
the girl in the school uniform hiked higher than regulation finger-tip length because why should she have to put up with their forced homogeneity (a word she learned just that morning and has to use in a sentence at least once this week), whose pouty lips frown as her iPhone 12 that should have been a 13 (just like everyone else has if her dad wasn’t so cheap) makes a snick for the Snap to her BFF who’s in Florida without her and so she’s oblivious to
the guy in the blue suit behind her, whose hand hovers too close to the firm curve of her ass as he wills the light to change so the crowd will shift and the feel will get lost in the jostle of bodies (all trying to get somewhere faster than should be expected at this time of day), but if looks could kill his dead body would be slumped on the sidewalk right now because
the tall woman behind him is ready to cause a scene and maybe, if she can just make a little more room, even drop him with a fierce kick between his legs if his lecherous hand gets any closer because #metoo too many times to count and she almost-not-really-but-yes-really wants him to make a move just so she’ll have the pleasure of hurting him on behalf of women everywhere, and she’s buoyed by the power in the voice—if not the message--of
the self-proclaimed prophet waving pamphlets and imploring the waiting crowd of potential converts to PRAY FOR—
and they’re praying, praying for the light to just fucking change already so they can get moving, get away from the too-intimate grazes of the strangers beside them (except for the guy in the blue suit who needs it as cover), and get on with their day, especially
the man with the pocket watch who is going to be late for the audition that will change everything if he gets the part (which will justify his decision to drop out of law school that had broken his grandfather’s already fragile heart) if only the light would hurry up and change, and when it does he snaps the cover shut just as the second-hand jerks forward once more, and his mind fills in the tick that his ears can’t hear above the roar of the city
and (finally) everyone starts to move.
the girl in the school uniform hiked higher than regulation finger-tip length because why should she have to put up with their forced homogeneity (a word she learned just that morning and has to use in a sentence at least once this week), whose pouty lips frown as her iPhone 12 that should have been a 13 (just like everyone else has if her dad wasn’t so cheap) makes a snick for the Snap to her BFF who’s in Florida without her and so she’s oblivious to
the guy in the blue suit behind her, whose hand hovers too close to the firm curve of her ass as he wills the light to change so the crowd will shift and the feel will get lost in the jostle of bodies (all trying to get somewhere faster than should be expected at this time of day), but if looks could kill his dead body would be slumped on the sidewalk right now because
the tall woman behind him is ready to cause a scene and maybe, if she can just make a little more room, even drop him with a fierce kick between his legs if his lecherous hand gets any closer because #metoo too many times to count and she almost-not-really-but-yes-really wants him to make a move just so she’ll have the pleasure of hurting him on behalf of women everywhere, and she’s buoyed by the power in the voice—if not the message--of
the self-proclaimed prophet waving pamphlets and imploring the waiting crowd of potential converts to PRAY FOR—
and they’re praying, praying for the light to just fucking change already so they can get moving, get away from the too-intimate grazes of the strangers beside them (except for the guy in the blue suit who needs it as cover), and get on with their day, especially
the man with the pocket watch who is going to be late for the audition that will change everything if he gets the part (which will justify his decision to drop out of law school that had broken his grandfather’s already fragile heart) if only the light would hurry up and change, and when it does he snaps the cover shut just as the second-hand jerks forward once more, and his mind fills in the tick that his ears can’t hear above the roar of the city
and (finally) everyone starts to move.