The Watch

Such a pity the watch could bring me a maximum of 24 hours back in time, after I already asked Maddie out. Otherwise I would have chosen a different place than this cozy teahouse. On the twentieth repetition of our first date, I learned that Maddie didn’t like tea very much, and wasn’t into whimsical pastel decor either.

“Tell me more about yourself,” I said, pouring steaming chamomile tea into her mug. I knew she would smile after it. I never got tired of her smile.

“I’m just a regular girl,” Maddie laughed. “Working, doing chores…”

“Where do you work?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

“I’m a nurse at the psych ward,” she said, taking a sip of her tea.

“Wow,” I said. “It must be very demanding of you.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“It’s really heroic, I think,” I took a bite of my brownie. I didn’t really have a sweet tooth, and I got tired of it already a few attempts back, but not eating it at all would seem suspicious. Only sociopaths don’t eat their brownie, Maddie joked a few dates ago. “What do you do to deal with the stress and all?”

“I read,” Maddie said, brushing her brown hair with her hand. “Typical escapism.”

“You like fantasy then?”

“Yeah. Do you also?”

“Very much,” I said. I never liked this genre; I didn’t really like reading, either. But I managed to read a few fantasy books in the periods between our dates. It was hard to make it in the limited time - I listened to the audiobooks two times the speed.

“I love the Broken Bonds trilogy,” I said, feigning embarrassment. “It’s a cringe romantasy, but so much fun…”

She almost jumped off her seat.

“For real? It’s my favorite one too!” She leaned in, and whispered. “Even though I agree it’s a bit of a guilty pleasure.”

I laughed. I kept asking about all she liked and loved; I knew exactly what to inquire to make her excited, when to step in, and when to let her talk. I used to do a lot of improvisation theater a few years back. The community seemed nice, and someone sometime told me improvised acting was cool, so I gave it a shot. I quickly learned that improvisation was never truly improvised; at least it wasn’t for me. I stored safe, rehearsed phrases in my mind that I would fall back on in case I was out of words. But still, at times, unexpected situations happened, which froze me in the middle of the stage, curious eyes of my theater peers on me, waiting for my reaction. I hated it. We humans should be able to rehearse our lives, to practice what is the best to be said, to be done.

The conversation was going so well, better than any other previous time. I hoped I wasn’t going to mess it up. I glanced at the clock; it was almost time for Maddie to leave, she always excused herself at the exact same time.

“Julie,” she said, after glancing at the clock. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Please do.”

“What do you actually like to do? Like, for real.”

“How do you mean?”

She avoided my eyes, playing with a tag of a discarded teabag.

“When I mentioned my interests, you seemed to know exactly what I’m talking about. You like the same music, the same books and shows, the same food.”

She paused, and a shiver went through me.

“We’ve just met,” she said. “But it seems you’ve known me for very long.”

“It’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t want to say that you’re dishonest or something,” she traced the rim of her cup with her finger. “But I find it strange that we match so well. It seems… artificial.”

I felt my cheeks flush. I prepared so well. I pushed myself to watch all these movies she loved, checked out the political movements she followed, and made myself become enthusiastic about cats and plants. I felt my hands shake.

She must have seen my discomfort, and she laughed, as if dismissively.

“Oh silly me,” she said. “I almost forgot the time. I have to go.”

We stood up and shared an awkward hug. She smelled lovely, like cloves and cardamom. I squeezed my eyes shut.

I knew that in half an hour I will receive a text message saying it was a lovely date, and she thinks I’m a very nice person, but sadly it won’t work out, and she wishes me all the best.

And again, Julie will stay single, and will be thrown back to the world of dating apps, feeling like a failure.

I could not let it happen.

After leaving the teashop, I walked another direction than Maddie, and turned into a narrow alley. The first time I came here, I had been on the verge of crying: I had just ruined a date with the nicest girl I had met in a long time. I had wanted to be alone and the alley had been empty save for a small flock of pigeons looking down at me from a broad window shelf. Now I went into the alley without hesitation.

On the ground, among chewing gum stains and squashed tins, there was a golden watch, waiting to be, yet again, picked up.

The watch looked undoubtedly old, but at the same time brand new, like items someone hoarded for years without use, saving it for a special occasion that never came. The dial was cream white, with elegant black markers and thin hands. It ticked softly.

Once I turned the crown, the world blurred, and even though I did it countless times before, I gasped, but kept turning, until I was back in my apartment, my hands empty. The microwave timer showed 17:12, Saturday.

I let out a breath, sat at the kitchen table and put my face in my hands.

I’ve never been good at accepting failure. At moments I yet again failed, my shame, like a tiny fairy popping up in my brain, liked to speak to me. Look at all these people around you who are so much more successful, the shame whispered, encouraging me to open social media apps. This person completed a marathon without eating any carbohydrates for a whole month prior. This person runs two businesses on the side of her day job, has four beautiful children in beige linen clothes, smiling to the camera like future celebrities. And look at her, she travels the world with her cute border collie, last month she drove through Sahara desert and witnessed a birth of a baby camel, while you were sitting here, at this table, a single thirty-something year old with a job you hate and no perspectives for interesting life whatsoever. If only you had a dark dirty mysterious life, but you have no life instead.

How easy it is to indulge in feeling sorry for yourself. I took a deep breath. I was done with it.

What do you actually like to do? Asked Maddie. I didn’t know anymore. But I was going to find out.

I had a large box under my bed; one of those huge plastic storage boxes that you use to put away the things you don’t want to see, either because they’re not attractive, or they make you feel. I pulled the box out, and opened it, sneezing as the dust raised in the air like a morning fog.

I took out a set of brushes in various states of wear and tear and a tin of watercolors with still some dried paint on the cover. I found my half finished sketchbook, opened it, and looked at my old paintings. They were wonky, unprofessional, ugly even; but they were mine. I placed my laptop and two screens on my bed, freeing my desk, and I sat down, sketchbook with a blank page in front of me, a clean brush in my hand.

“I love painting,” I said around twenty hours later in the pastel tea house.

“Wow,” said Maddie. “Do you post your art somewhere?”

“Well, no. Actually, yesterday I picked up my brushes for the first time in ages,” I took a sip from my cup. I ordered my favorite green tea now. It was delicious. “It felt really good.”

“I’ve never been much into creative hobbies,” Maddie answered. “I guess I have no talent for it.”

“I don’t believe in talent. And besides, you can do art for the fun of it.”

She shrugged.

“Yeah, maybe. I guess it’s just not for me. I do love reading, though, especially fantasy books. Do you?”

I hesitated, but just for a moment.

“No, not really. But tell me about the books you like. Who knows, maybe you’ll convince me?” I said, even though I knew she would not.

Time passed, each of us trading pieces of ourselves to each other; but never too deep, never too vulnerable.

“Oh silly me,” she said when the clock showed almost five o’clock. “I almost forgot the time. I have to go.”

We shared yet another awkward hug.

“I had a lovely time, great meeting you, Julie”, Maddie said.

“It was nice to meet you too, Maddie,” I said, honestly. Maddie was nice. Very nice. But my mind, even though creative, could not put us both into one picture. I wasn’t sure now whether I would receive the text message in the next half hour or not; but I also realized I didn’t mind.

We parted at the door of the teahouse, waving goodbye. I walked down the street, and gave the small side alley a glance, but my feet kept carrying me forward, as though pushed by an external force. I smiled.

I had a painting idea in mind, and it could not wait.