The Watch Had No Hands

The fork dipped, cut the thin gray pancake. He lifted it to his mouth and bit down. He coughed, covered his mouth, coughed. His fork clattered onto the white porcelain plate. He coughed and reached for his napkin. “Excuse me.”

The woman he addressed sat across the table. Her eyes were open, glazed. A house fly crawled over her blue iris. Sunlight from the tall windows that encircled the breakfast room polished her dark lashes and the long wine red of her hair.

He dabbed at his lips with the napkin and paused to catch his breath. He glanced at his wristwatch and saw that it had no hands. Not very surprising, under the circumstances. He sighed and picked up his fork. The woman's plate was laden with a dinner still untouched. One white hand sat next to a butter knife, its fingers long devoid of animation.

“Lillian, You never answered my question last night. I know we've been through a lot, but that's all in the past. There's still time to continue. Continue everything, our lives, our conversation. After breakfast we can fight over who is to wash the dishes. We can fight over the headlines in the news. I'll drive you to work and you can tell me you don't need me to take care of you. You'll cook me dinner and we can fight over the dishes again.”

Lillian just stared at him.

He finished his breakfast, then looked down at his watch.

Outside, smoke wound up from neatly painted houses. Across the lawn, on the black asphalt street, dead bodies were covered in black birds. He watched as one crow lifted its beak to meet his gaze. It screamed at him. He looked away.

“My question, Lillian. You look at me as if you have forgotten it. Well, perhaps you have. So much has happened in the last few hours to drive it from your memory.” He laughed. He wrapped his fingers together and leaned his head against them. Outside, he saw that the crow had fallen back to its meal.

“If you had one day left to live, Lillian. One day. What would you do before you died? If you knew for certain that there would be no tomorrow?”

Lillian was silent. The fly left her eye and darted in and out of her painted lips like the tip of a small, black tongue.

“Dammit, Lillian!” He slammed his hands onto the table. The juice in his glass jumped. The wine in hers dove over its rim. “Why can't you ever take me seriously?” He thrust himself to his feet and leaned across the table, shoving his watch in her face. “There's no time left Lillian! There is no fucking time!”

Her head lolled to the side. The fly disappeared into her mouth.

He ran his hands through her long hair. “No time.” He muttered. Tears rolled down his cheeks and stained the black collar of his shirt. “No time.”

He coughed.

The knife flashed as it chopped the carrot. A thin hand brushed the slices aside and brought an onion onto the cutting board. The knife flashed. Lillian heard her husband walk through the front door and slam it shut. She smiled at him over her shoulder.

“Hey honey. How was work?” She asked. He leaned against the partition that separated the kitchen from the breakfast nook where they took their meals. She could see the lights of candles sparkle behind him on the table and behind those, through the glass of the floor length windows, she saw the lights of street lamps and curtained homes. Even further away was the diseased glitter of the city stars.

Her husband's silhouette sagged. She saw him run his fingers through his short brown hair. He always did that when he was upset. She set down her knife. “Lucas, what's wrong?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. He didn't reciprocate. She pressed herself against his white shirt and rested her head against the edge of the shirt's black collar. “You have a bad day, Hon?”

A fly landed on his cheek. She brushed it away.

“Hon?”

“Have you read the newspaper yet?” He asked.

“Nope, the cafe was crazy today. Must have been the rain, everyone wanted hot drinks and a warm place to sit. You wouldn't believe the noise. It was so loud I couldn't even eavesdrop.” She laughed.

He sighed. Nodded. Pried her loose. Walked to the counter. Nodded again and swallowed. “There was nothing interesting in it anyway. Just lies, as usual. Things to infect weak minds. The usual.”

He began to chop the onion. She walked to the oven and pulled out a pan. They talked of inconsequential things. Soon, the food was done and they carried it to the table. Lillian put out plates while Lucas poured wine.

Lucas attacked his dinner as Lillian sipped her drink. She watched as a newspaper blew by outside. It bumped into a street lamp and caught there for a moment, long enough for her to read the headline. Strange Disease Affects Millions. Laboratory Accident to Blame.

“Lillian...”

She turned her attention back to Lucas. “How do you like the salad dressing? It isn't too much is it? The pomegranate's still experimental.”

“Lillian, what would you do if you knew I was going to die tonight?” Lucas set down his fork. His hand trembled.

She sipped her wine. “What do you think of the pomegranate?” He glared at her. “Oh really, what is it with you and hypothetical questions?”

He changed tactics. “What if you were going to die tonight? Would you want to be told? How would you like to spend your last hours?”

“Why?” She laughed and tossed her hair so that candlelight ran in rivulets down its surface. “Don't be so serious. What happened to you today? Did Taylor break the computer at your office again?”

“Lillian--”

She held up her hand. “No more. We have years of life before us and the food is getting cold.”

“Lillian, how can you be sure?”

“Your steak looks like there's ice growing on it.” She picked up her fork.

“No, how can you be sure that you have years of life left? What if today's all there is? What if--”

“Be realistic.”

She pressed her fork into her steak. She coughed. She coughed again, covered her mouth, coughed. Her fork clattered onto the white porcelain plate. She coughed and reached out for her napkin. “Excuse me. I must have swallowed wrong...”

“No.” He said. He stood up and walked to her, wrapped his arms around her. He held her as she coughed, confusion beginning to show on her face. “You didn't.”

She looked down at her napkin. It was stained with blood.

Lucas lay on the table. Flies swarmed around his body. His hand rested on his wife's cold fingers. Sunlight bounced off the glass face of his dead watch. Somewhere down the street, someone coughed.

There was no more time.