Of the essence

He’s on the sofa, lost for things to do. He’s eaten three bowls of sugar frosted cereal already. A defrostable microwave meal sits unopened on the side as he stares at the switched-off television, exhausted by the thought of three and a half minutes. The filter on the fish tank trickles recycled water into the background. It’s then that he notices the ticking, like hearing a voice in his head that he can't really hear. He looks around. Tick tick click tick. There is no clock in this room. He sits up and feels down the side of the sofa, he stands and looks on the shelf, or the mantelpiece, or whatever it’s supposed to be called. He walks to the kitchen and checks the oven for timers, he listens to the back of the fridge and stands by the microwave a full minute. He goes to his desk and pulls out the drawers, he empties the cupboards and turns the cd player off at the wall. He throws out a novelty golf ball clock, even though it hasn’t worked for a year. He turns pockets inside out and kicks over cushions, he accuses lamps of shenanigans and glares at the cutlery. He switches the ceiling light on and off and notices he has coving. He finds a three week old tv listing and is overwhelmed by the urge to read it. He turns off that goddamn fish filter that he didn’t even want to buy in the first place and all the fishes rush to the front of the glass, mouthing silently in alarm. And still the ticking continues, soft slices of seconds evaporating one by one. He runs down the stairs, slipping on the final two. He falls, hits the wall heavily and lands on his watch, swearing loudly as it digs sharply into his wrist. And then, as he sucks the pinched, bruising skin, right next to his ear, he hears it; tick tick, click click. The watch; this watch, that he bought himself suit-shopping one Thursday afternoon; this watch that went unnoticed for three weeks and seven days by all closest to him; this watch that no one had thought to buy him sooner, or had even considered to purchase, even though he had made at least three remarks about replacing the old Casio that he had worn since university and could change the channel; this watch that in all the one and a half years of ownership had he never stopped to realise made such a racket- that watch. And in the final quiet that at last allows him to hear what has been there all the time, his fingers curl tighter around the strap, his knuckles whiten, and he punches that watch into the wall, glass breaking with each blow, slicing into those neat, underworked fingers, over and over until his wrist snaps. And as he sits there cradling that useless joint, the click tick, tick click of his companion continues, barely audible.