'The Watchmaker'

No man can create time, he can only create instruments to track it, and to be able to create something complex enough to track time was a gift, a gift the watchmaker was proud to possess. Taking apart an aged clock, gently lifting the face to reveal the intricacies within never failed to amaze the watchmaker- that man could create something so pure and as perfect as a keeper of time.
In the workshop of his Father’s shop, the watchmaker would sit surrounded by keepers of time, each second hand of each and every clock and watch moving in exact synchronisation creating a small hum of cogs turning. The watchmaker smiled- it was so perfect and pristine.
The clock before him was running half a second slow. It had been out in the main area of his Father’s shop for sale, but the watchmaker could not let the clock be sold when it did not run at exact time- that would be cheating the customer, and that would be wrong. It was 8 seconds past midday and his Father had left the shop to purchase sandwiches for their precisely 20 minute lunch break. They would then start work again, and then take a tea break at 3:15. They would resume work at 3:30 then at 5:00 close the shop for the night and be home for 5:47. The watchmaker and his Father ran their lives by the ticking of their clocks.
As the watchmaker made the second hand move forward he caught something- something that was not meant to be in a clock. He set the clock down and picked a pair of tweezers and leaned over the clock and extracted the alien object. The watchmaker was confused; he turned around to hold the object up to the lamp.
It was a hair. A long, very fine strand of golden hair.
The watchmaker looked at it in confusion- he himself had not blonde in his hair and his Father’s hair had been grey for many years now. How had this golden hair got caught in a clock that the watchmaker himself had built over a year ago?
He delicately lifted the hair from the tweezers and placed it in the palm of his pale hand. It just lay there. Perhaps, the watchmaker wondered, that it had belonged to a customer with an interest in the clock, but had not purchased it. Or perhaps this customer, possibly female, had lifted the clock up to hear the ticking (the watchmaker himself had the habit of listening to the rhythm of a clock) and a stray hair had been caught inside the mechanics of it. The watchmaker wondered then if this woman had noticed the clock was half a second out then perhaps she decided not to purchase it.
The watchmaker was about to dispose of the hair when an image rose in his mind- the owner of the hair, a woman, with blonde hair perfectly styled and with sparkling blue eyes. The watchmaker liked this image, especially when he coupled it with the idea that this woman had showed an interest in clocks, much an interest the watchmaker shared. He did not realize he was smiling.
The watchmaker sat at his bench, but his mind had long flown away from the shop to this owner of the golden strand of hair. He wondered that if this woman had not been too offended by the clock that was half a second slow that she may indeed return to his Father’s shop to inspect the clocks and watches once again. Then perhaps she would notice the watchmaker sitting in the light of his workshop, composing another clock, then she may approach the watchmaker- a conversation would begin. About clocks? Most likely. He would say something deep and interesting about the nature of man been able to keep time, and she would be wowed be his poetic philosophical nature. They would speak of their past- the woman would tell the watchmaker of a bad past relationship she had barely escaped from, and (up until this point) believed she would never love again. The watchmaker would be flattered and casually ask her if she would accompany him to dinner this Friday. She would smile and say ‘of course’. No, the watchmaker had a better idea- she would say ‘No, I’m sorry’, then watchmaker would be dejected but then she would say: ‘I should have made myself clear, I’m busy Friday but free Saturday instead’? The watchmaker smiled.
Each day for the following weeks, the watchmaker moved his chair a little closer to the door that connected him to the shop, in the hope his daydream woman would enter. Each time the little bell above the door tinkled the watchmaker jumped up and looked into the shop to see with disappointment that it was not who he was looking for.
His hands became shaky. He felt like nerves and excitement were fighting it out in the pit of his stomach. His watch making was become increasingly sloppy. His Father had to HAVE WORDS with him, something that had not happened in many years. The watchmaker kept his head bowed so not to reveal the deep shame on his face- as his Father said watch making was an absolute gift that was given to very few, and to produce substandard pieces of work was to cheat the customer. “Do you want to cheat the customer?” His voice boomed.
“No, Father.” Came the quiet response. The watchmaker wanted to tell his Father that he struggled to work to his normal standard because he was in love. Yes, he admitted he was in love. He could not admit to the Father that he had finally found love- he would not understand.
The watchmaker had kept the strand of fine gold hair wrapped in a handkerchief which he kept in his shirts drawer at home. Late at night he would often take it out and caress the hair and continue his dream of life with it’s owner. By now they were to be married, at first Father had not consented by once he saw that the young couple were truly in love he caved in, much to their delight and they celebrated with a bottle of red wine.
Vienna or Switzerland? The watchmaker pondered on a rainy Tuesday. Which would be the preferred honeymoon destination? They would have to bring Father along too, if he could bear to shut the shop. Then again, the watchmaker thought it be better if they just stayed in Britain. He’d never flown before and after all he’d heard about plane crashes and such and such it might not be such a good idea. An early death was not one he had planned, but he was trying not too think of that- he wanted to go through their life in a logical order.
It was on a Friday, when Father had left to purchase sandwiches for lunch that the watchmaker had been left in charge of the shop. There was the tinkling of the bell, and the watchmaker felt his heat stop for a moment and he knew it was her.
She was about 10 years older than he thought. And perhaps she had more weight on her than he had thought, and her eyes were green, not blue, but still- it was her. She came to the counter and told the watchmaker than she had come to collect her clock she’d sent in for repairs. The watchmaker took the repairs slip from her and found her clock, and gently handed it over to her. She thanked him and left.
The watchmaker sighed. He had forgotten to ask her name.