The Analog Clock

Eleven twenty.

It’s been 11:20 for weeks now. Months maybe. Neither of us wanted to take the time to fix the damn thing. Day in and day out we would look at that clock and clearly we see that it’s stuck. No more ticking. No movement whatsoever. Still, it reads 11:20 while time presses on anyway. There are other options out there to satisfy our need to know, so we walk away as we pull out our phones. How trivial it is to stop your day just to make it work. 

“I’d better change the battery. Tomorrow. Maybe she’ll do it first.” He thinks. 

“It won't work if no one tries to fix it. I’m not going to be the one to do it. I’ve done it plenty of times.” I think. Decisively.

Still, he walks right past it every day leaving me to sit and stare hoping that it’ll change. That it’ll start ticking again, like my heart beat. That the battery would be new, like a fresh breath into my lungs. That there would be movement, like the blood through my veins. That it’ll be unstuck, like my lips against your skin.

And every time we see that clock, we revisit the same question:

Will it finally work this time?