The clock was louder than he wished. In the otherwise eerie quiet of the room, the ticking pulsed against his eardrums, quaking what little was visible under his droopy eyelids. The faded upholstery of the armchair opposite sickened him. The pea green, while a poor choice in any household, was so similar in colour to the vomit on the pavement three miles away that his stomach turned again.

Tick. Make it stop. Each second a moment further away from the decision digging its talons into his temples. Do I go back and look for her? Tock. Plead the fifth. I didn't see it happen so I can't possibly know what transpired.

***

She was a stranger only last month. The girl spotted him first, on a blustery day when patrons hide inside coffee shops and discreetly wipe their noses on scarves in the absence of a tissue. He was looking out the window, a copy of Great Expectations flattened along the spine underneath his veiny hand. Occasional glances at the novel read and reread was enough to create the guise of a reader. While he was that, he more often took the stance of observer. Today was no exception.

The window on 4th, centred in the downtown storefronts, was mottled with enough grime to supply his preferred level of anonymity as he gazed out at the quirks of this most unfortunate species, between sips of particularly potent latte. The wind stole the hat from a tall and proud man. Too proud to chase his tweed cap down the street. His angry ears burned brightly as he turtled into his collar. A mother, equipped with stroller and 3-year-old, drag-pushed her spawn along the sidewalk, her son howling a few decibels louder than the gale as they passed by the window. A business woman, waiting at the corner to cross the street, tightened her trench coat belt, attempting to save her pristine clothes which sharply contrasted her tornado-flipped hair.

"Is it worth the read?"

He started at the melodic voice. He had not heard the woman approach. She perched delicately on the stool to his right and fixed her gaze on the book beneath his hand. He stared back at her, not realizing she had asked a question.

"Is it a good book or is the redhead outside more interesting?"

"I'm sorry?" he replied.

"Well, you've hardly flipped any pages. I know a people-watcher when I see one." As his face turned pink with embarrassment she said, "Don't worry, I do it too. Though, a better location would be the beach. Sunglasses help." She smirked.

He was at a loss for words.

"That's okay. You can tell me whatever you want at dinner." She slid a business card across the coffee-stained counter. "Call me." With a charming smile, she flounced into the grey day, her chocolate hair flying in long waves behind her.

Her brazen approach left him dumbstruck, staring at the exit to the coffee shop where she lingered only in his imagination. He picked up the business card. Mary Walters, it read. Real estate. She sells herself well, he thought. He smiled at the notion of being seen sitting across from her in a dimly lit restaurant, staring directly at him the way she just had, her piercing blue eyes boring a hole in his carefully constructed defences. He would call her. Maybe.

***

Tick. Eyes open. How much time had passed? He felt each beat of the oaken clock like a lead weight pressing deeply into his diaphragm. His breath came short. The pendulum continued to swing. Tock. Stay awake. They could be here any second. But how could they know?