After months of tardiness and frustration, I finally decided to spring for a new clock to hang in the bathroom. It was a day like any other day as I perused the isles at Smith's. Happening upon the clock section, I noticed a clock sale. My lucky, yet ever-fateful day.
This clock was too showy. That one too bland. This one said, “Greetings, I'll pay you to be my friend.” That one just screamed, “Listen, the time is now 7 o'clock and where are you? Here at home. In your pajamas. Why aren't you out painting the town? Why are you here? Why don't you have an exciting life like me? I'm fun and sassy, so what are you?” I don't need an arrogant clock asking insolent questions of me. After an icy glare, I moved on. And there. There he was. Sensible. Neutral between masculine and feminine. A smooth charcoal black. A celebration of time and beauty. And on sale for a reasonable $7.99. I lovingly embraced my new friend and took him home with love and understanding.
I fed him his first meal: two double-A Duracells. I taught him the correct time and then lovingly hung him prominently on the bathroom wall. That evening I caught myself glancing at his smiling face and grinning fondly as he informed me of the time.
It was a magically blissful evening. Me. Chris. And Clock. A new little family. But, little did I know, painfully jagged tragedy was soon to strike. My precious, sensible clock was never meant to make it past 5 a.m.
I awoke the next morning quite unaware of anything amiss. I headed to the bathroom to put my contacts in. I confidently looked to my new friend to tell me how quickly I needed to accomplish the task, but what's this? It couldn't possibly be 4:43. With a quick gasp, I inspected the situation more carefully. Oh, the agony. Oh, the despair. In the early mists of morning, my sweet, sensible clock's life had been cruelly snuffed out. I found his body that morning, hanging from my wall, his hands still twitching in his final death throes. Resuscitation was futile. Besides, clocks don't breathe. The timing, and irony of that timing, and the irony of time itself was unbearable. Out of respect, I covered his lifeless face with a towel.
After this fateful day of loss, sorrow, grief, and misery, I have never, nor will never, be the same again. The bitterness and cynicism you see me exhibit today are the remnants of tragic loss that will never heal.
