Since the beginning, time had a way of sticking to Nicholas. He couldn’t help it. A few seconds here, a minute there. They clung to him without much prompting and collected. It was never too much, never weeks or even days. He never saw the point, really. But the lost seconds stuck anyway, small things that knew their purpose before he did.
In fact, Nicholas’s first theft had almost been an accident. Just a few seconds stolen
from a young man as he stirred his coffee during breakfast.
The young man had been trying to decide whether he ought to call his
mother when he felt a ticket in his pocket. The ticket reminded him he needed
to collect his dry cleaning. And that was enough. He lost his train of thought
and with it a few seconds to Nicholas, still just a young
boy, sitting at the next table.
He felt a little guilty, of course. About the time he took. About how
easy it was. How unnoticed. Once, in university, he nicked almost an hour from
a classmate who couldn’t seem to focus during a lecture on economics. Time
had no patience for the distracted, they say. No interest in the
disinterested.
But the moments that slipped away so easily from others were rarely
something they missed. Actually, no one ever seemed to notice that their time
had gotten away from them.
By his 25th birthday, Nicholas learned how to use
the time he’d captured. He would always claim the first success had been on his
wedding day, bonding a few loose seconds into a kiss with Maria.
That was a chaotic day and it was hard to be sure. But that kiss lasted
longer than it should have. Long enough to remember it well.
As he grew older, he found it easiest to stick and spread the seconds
over objects, like butter over warm toast that had softened for awhile before
spreading. He slowed melting candle wax at dinner, so that a good conversation
might last a bit longer. Or, after a long day, he would pour some seconds out
into the tub so that the bath water’s warmth could linger.
Little luxuries.
After many happy years passed, Nicholas knew that his own time was
petering out. There was more life behind him than ahead. And Maria’s time was
running out faster than his.
And so, Nicholas slowed their Sunday drives through the countryside, spinning
extra seconds into the wheels as the road threaded beneath them. He stoked fires with seconds on cold
nights, so she could fall asleep with the golden warmth she loved.
He watered Maria’s favorite peonies on the windowsill with seconds, so
she could wake to their soft sweet scent again and again. Each morning a fresh
bloom, defying clocks, calendars, Chronology himself.
And at the last, he stuck extra seconds into her blanket. It was his way of lingering. Of
whispering, I love you, I am here, I
am with you.
Till the End. Maybe even a
little past it.
And yet.
Somewhere else, someone else stirs their coffee.
They remember their dry-cleaning but
forget to call their mother.
They lose a few seconds to a little
boy or girl nearby. To someone who doesn’t yet know the purpose of borrowed seconds.
But they will. In their own time.
Great story - I love the speculative element (and technically, the deliberate sentence construction) Well done 🙌🏻 - Dorit d’Scarlett
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