A Watch With Two Faces

Two kids stand on the edge of a cliff. Green grass blows against their sun-tanned ankles as the lighthouse tower in the distance stands unused. the breeze whips through the palm frawns and through her beach-blond hair, dancing around her exposed neck.

the waves stood still, but his limbs extended in an attempted embrace. skin on skin, but not warm enough to break through that goose-bump flesh. the cold, almost blunt sting of his gold watch against the inside of her wrist set the atmosphere off-kilter. the whole world was on edge, teetering on the very end of that cliff, balanced by that same lighthouse.

In an awkward reversal of his intrusion, the glimmer of the minute hand reflected in her eyes. four thirty-two pm. afternoon, the time when birds chirp, children get ice cream, and the rich take naps after veal and caviar, the time when the air is warm. On second glance the slate digital numbers enforce their mechanic dominance over her impressions, nine o'clock.

There is no ninth house in the afternoon, it simply holds no place there.

much like these two kids, on the edge of a cliff supporting the weight of the world.

it all depends on such slight chance, the balance of such contradictory forced. the fate of all existence lies in the delicacy of these situations between children.