Clocks

There is a clock. It’s mounted on the wall next to them; Eleanor pays no mind to its insistent ticking, but Alice sees it and hears it, and feels its presence like shrieking machine cogs. On the wall, in the bustling coffee shop, surrounded by the ripples of removing paper wrappers from straws and the gulping down of mediocre coffee, there is a clock facing Alice. She can’t stand it.

“Democracy is the lifeblood of American power.” Eleanor is gesticulating wildly. “The United States was still reeling from 9/11, and they needed an enemy barbaric enough to remind the world how important they were. It was Iraq! Don’t you think?” Stirring the dregs of the coffee she hadn’t bothered to finish, Alice shrugs smilingly. She can’t bring herself to offer a nuanced opinion on ISIS’ statehood. Alice wants to, she does, but the clock is swallowing her whole.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Alice agrees, eyes on the thin red hand that careens around the circle.

She wonders how many seconds it will take Eleanor to realize she has stopped paying attention, how many minutes it will be before her drink turns to slush.

Mostly, Alice wonders how long it will take for Anna to text her back.

“So get this: ISIS then picks up the fragments of post-invasion Iraq,” Eleanor continues. “And then they pieced them together with a collective identity so strong that it created a state.”

“Right.”

There is a chip in the hour hand. Small, to be sure, but it is a divot where the sharp point of the arrow once was- like those chips on the bodies of Greek sculptures in art museums. They don’t distract from sinewy shoulders, the delicate nature of protruding collarbones. Hardly noticeable. At least, not until you look up close. Alice ponders what happened to the hand. Maybe the clock was dropped? Treated a little too roughly? But never replaced, Alice muses.

Just then, her phone pings.