One of this weeks prompts was his watch has stopped. Here’s what I came up with in the twenty minutes given for writing.

By Genevieve Clovis

The bus is stuck in morning traffic and I’m silently cursing everyone around me. Outside the filthy window cars are honking and pedestrians are j-walking, adding to the disjointed flow of traffic. I try to imagine being out there, the cool breeze caressing my skin, the air fresh and breathable, the freedom of being able to move around. But the old man behind me is having a coughing fit and not covering his mouth, and I am painfully aware of the germs he is spreading mingling with the recycled air I am breathing.

The bus is packed and loud and hot and I so desperately want off, but we’re still at least eight stops away from the doctor’s office. We’re going to be late. I said it so many times this morning the words have lost their meaning. And still my dad refused to leave before ten. If we’re late he’ll lose the appointment and I can’t go through this again.

My leg starts jiggling. I can’t help it, I’m so anxious. Beside me Dad checks the time, “It’s okay sweetie, we’ve got lots of time.” His voice is so soft and sincere it melts my heart. He needs this appointment. I smile at him as he pats my knee, and I make an effort to still my leg.

“What’s the time then?” I ask, knowing full well the answer because his watch has stopped. I changed the time on it this morning so that we could leave a little bit early, for all the good it did us.

“It’s only quarter past ten.” He replied smiling.