The Clock Behind the Counter

I can't sleep so I walk to the 24-hour place two blocks down. Not for anything. I buy a tea I let go cold and stand by the magazines.

The clerk knows me now. Same guy every time, even afternoons, even sundays, which can't be right but I've stopped doing the math. The hotdogs turn on their little rollers. The radio plays something soft I never quite catch the name of.

Tonight I noticed the clock behind the counter. Big plastic one above the cigarettes. It says 3:00. I thought, finally, a normal detail, it's about three. Then I remembered it said 3:00 last week when I came in at lunch for batteries. And the week before that, at dusk.

I asked him about it, casual. He looked up, looked at the clock, said yeah, stopped a while ago, nobody minds. Then he went back to his crossword like that settled it.

And the thing is, nobody does mind. I don't. There's something kind about a place where it's always the one hour that belongs to me. I bought the cold tea I won't drink and walked home, and for once I didn't check my phone for the time.