8. The Clockmaster avoids a question

Suddenly, she was startled. Past eight and the shop’s still - open? She turned back, in moment’s reflex, and looked through the shop’s glassed window, dusk creeping in darker like a veil unfolding from the east. How come it’s this late?

“What time did you say it was?” It was still bright when I left Starbuck’s.

The shopkeeper’s face became stern, as if offended by her question. Or was it always this stern – his usual face, when no customer was looking at him? He looked at this pocket watch again, put it back, but gave no reply. Instead, he bent down and took out a drawer filled with wristwatches from beneath the counter.

“If you want Swatches, I’m afraid I don’t have them…” He was being the polite, gentle, apologetic shopkeeper once more. “Rolex, Omega, Cartier,…– that I do. Maybe – maybe a Baume & Mercier might interest you? They have this very nice collection, you see…” And stole a look at Nicole, “it’s, um, with interchangeable straps; you can put on different leather straps, if you don’t like the steel or the gold straps: they come in different colours and they do this double loop around your wrist.” He took one out from the drawer, with a deep pink, purple, strap, “see? Very nice. Very chic, madame.”

Madame and not miss? And why’s he avoiding the question? I want to know what the hell the time is! Well, no wonder, all these clocks with different times… But, eight o’clock? No way.

She was beginning to feel uneasy, as only a woman can when she finds herself alone, unaccompanied by a person she trusts, in a walled place where events start drifting from the expected usualness. An unidentifiable uneasiness, but not fear. Not quite.