Mousy

She was the girl with the mousiest hair. Once upon a time as a child she hated that her Chinese Zodiac was the rat. For she’d been told, hair aside, she had a habit of scurrying about like a rodent. But she grew – as she softened in her later years – to come and appreciate her animal totum. Rats were survivors. And she was never one to snicker at a dumpster diver. But a plain brown-eyed scurrier with mousy hair she was. She was also something of a timelord. But whether she could be sure or not of that fact, well, she wasn’t, not entirely.

She’d once read an online article on pigeons. It suggested that pigeons perceived the world (and time) in a manner unlike humans. While to a human, a movie on film was undeniably moving in nature, a pigeon would perceive it as a slideshow of photographs. Like in one of those ‘smart’ frames you’d give your grandmother for christmas. That’s why with pigeons we always fear road-kill before they make their last second flight to safety from the middle of the road. They see us coming. They just don’t give a shit until they absolutely have to.

The kind of article that anyone scrolling their social media wouldn’t give another moment’s thought. Just another bizarre factoid blip before moving on to a bit of salacious celebrity gossip. But not her. No. This article had altered her.

She had thought back on her dearly deceased grandfather.

She had never seen a man move through time quite like him. They say that time is our greatest commodity, and if that were true, well her grandfather may have been the richest man she’d ever known.

He seemed never short on time.

But instead glided through it effortlessly and at his own leisure.

Before she could barely read, he would take her to the library every Saturday morning, find a seat and wait patiently as she deliberated over her seemingly endless choices, never once glancing at the clock until the bell tolled for midday and time to check out. And when beggars might come to the door, he would offer up a coffee and a peanut butter and syrup sandwich and a listening ear for what felt like hours while she, still a child, watched on reverently. They would sit and watch English football together, almost entirely in silence, unless he felt compelled to elaborate on the particular grace of a player. And if not for the whistle blown for half time, it would feel as if time had stalled altogether.

Time was slow and almost liquid around that man. Like sitting at the bottom of the swimming pool and holding your breath for as long as you could while all the world was still and noiseless, before coming up for air. Such were the moments spent with her grandfather.

And in her manic state, so she imagined were angels that walked among us. Those who were able to slow time almost to a standstill. So that babies could be rescued from car crashes. So that the merely human among us could be guided to safety in the event of a burning apartment block. So that all the grievances of the many homeless and hungry could find a listening ear until they had nothing left to say over a cup of coffee and a peanut butter and syrup sandwich.

Yes, in her manic state, she would sit with all the power outlets switched off at the wall, her smartphone facedown beside her, in nothing but candlelight, and try her very best at slowing down time so that she might be half the man that her grandfather once was.

More than this, she feared for humanity.

What if the angels that might have walked among us once had given up.

They could no longer battle the distortion of time that had befallen the fate of man.

She feared for an age of endless devices.

Time was beyond slowly down. It was speeding up.

Woefully, irreparably, it felt to her some days.

So on long and lonely nights, her madness making the best of her, she sat by nothing but classical music and candlelight and prayed for peace in the Middle East, and prayed that angels might walk among us once more, so that we might have time once again to recover from natural disasters. Most of all really, she prayed because she felt all alone without her grandfather. And in prayer, she spoke to him. Sometimes all night long she spoke to him. Until her heart felt less broken.

And on one of these nights her heart felt so very broken she posted a profile on a dating site. And by morning she had a bite. Numbers were exchanged and conversations were had. And it was not long until this particular green-eyed Scotsman told our mousy creature a joke, of fishcakes and a marlin’s birthday and she knew. She knew all too well. Her heart would be broken no more. And perhaps her grandfather was more than food fodder for grass to grow. For she had been given someone with whom to grow very old with indeed. For all the bad chemistry in her brain.

And with all the bad chemistry in her brain, she battled and she battled amongst demons and angels and everything in between. But she never feared demons. Nought but fallen angels really. All of us simply a mixed bag of good and bad when you squared off at the end of the day. But what she feared most, really, was an age of the machine, when we’d all forgotten how to slow time when it really mattered most. When we forgot how to light candles, and place our smartphones facedown and listen to classical music. When we could no longer be, without so very many machines.

And so it was that on one fateful night, trying to meditate but annoyed by the ceaseless pinging of her phone, she went through and pulled out every plug in the house. Even the fridge. Her bad chemistry had made her suspicious of anything that needed plugging in. And phones that pinged against her will. And so she went on to try and meditate when something struck her as odd. The sound of ticking. But not ticking.

It was the sound of not ticking that struck her as odd.

There was a wall clock that had come with the place. Faux French Country Chic. It had stopped.

Her practice broken she gave it up and made a mental note to replace the batteries in the wall clock. She went to the fridge for a cold beer and put the plug back in its socket. Along with the Wifi. With this, the clock went back to its usual ticking. No need for new batteries. Noting the suddenly ticking clock, she took a swig of her beer. It didn’t need batteries after all. In her head she wondered if time moved along the axis.

Like when you put your finger on the top of a globe.

And spun it.

It spun, but the finger didn’t move an inch. Was that where time went to stand still?