The Watchface at Three O’Clock

The vinyl floor smells of antiseptic and dust. I adjust the green enamel cup in my palm; its weight is too light for the liquid inside. Down the hall, past the reception desk marked ‘Student Services,’ the ticking of the wristwatch pulls me forward. It is metal, heavy, and its face shows twelve marks where the hands should be, yet it ticks loud, a steady *thump-thump*. I know I will not be late.

A figure stands by the radiator. He is wearing the same gray trousers as I do, the sleeves of his blue oxford shirt hang an inch too long. He turns toward the examination room. Suddenly, his shoulder angles, pulling him inward. Where his throat meets his neck, a smaller jawbone appears, solid and sudden. The boy stands there, looking at me with my own eyes. He reaches out a hand. His fingers are clean, carrying the smell of old chalk dust. I simply continue walking toward the double doors.