The Countdown Clock

Evan was late, and the train was as crowded as he would expect at five o'clock in the evening. Most people were making their commute home, the train stopping every few minutes to let people off, but mostly people entered. Unfortunately, his superior had decided that now was the perfect time to call him back to the office. Though he had earnestly pleaded to come in earlier tomorrow– at a whomping five in the morning– they had insisted that he come in immediately. As if his client's novel couldn't wait another twelve hours for finalizations. He almost ignored the order and stayed home, but something compelled him to go in anyway. Squished between two other bodies, he wished that he had ignored that compulsion.

The air was growing stuffier, so he adjusted his collar uncomfortably, pulling it outward, his neck stretching upwards. He glanced towards his left wrist, where he wore two watches. He completely disregarded the one higher on his arm-- he had given up on that one a long time ago. Instead, his eyes moved to the lower one. He made a light sound of impatience. Despite his best efforts to arrive promptly, he would still be late. His superior will definitely be pleased about this.

The train began slowing once again. He braced his hands on the seat, the force from the train making him lean towards the person beside him. He pitied those who were standing, as they had to grasp the bars above for dear life. As the train reached its stop, others around him began standing and jostling around, reaching for bags and nudging past people, mumbling meaningless apologies as they went. The large man who had been sitting beside him rose, and moved towards the exit. This made a considerable gap of space-- space that he did not want to be refilled. Just as Evan moved to place his bag on the empty seat beside him, a woman of about his age entered the train and glanced around before locking her eyes on this location.

She moved toward him, a slight bounce in her step. She was an interesting sight to behold. Her short brown hair levelled at the shoulder, and she had a black, brimmed hat atop her head. Her clothing consisted of a bright yellow top with a green skirt that reached the knees. Her sneakers were floral print, her socks did not match, and she was walking right towards the open seat beside him. He rolled his eyes inadvertently.

She had a huge, patched purse that was strapped across the body, and as she slung it off to sit down, it slammed right into his jaw. His head flung backwards from the shock, and it slammed into the train's wall. What she was carrying he did not know, but he guessed it was bricks.

He made a loud cry of pain, one hand holding the back of his head, the other tenderly touching his jaw.

The woman dropped her bag on the floor and plopped onto the seat as is began to move. She shifted her body to turn towards him, mouth hanging open, a look of horror on her face. She moved her hands towards him, then paused, then retracted them.

Her voice came out slightly hysterical, saying, "I'm so sorry! Injuring people is like a talent! How badly does it hurt?"

Aloud, he chuckled at his rotten luck, which seemed to calm her. "On what scale, exactly?

She made a "hmm" sound, and then replied, "How about from one to ten?" The bright, boldness of her clothing had nothing on her smile. It was a magic trick that transformed her whole face, accentuating every curve and plane, brightening her blue eyes. He sat with a pleasantly confused expression on his face for a moment, completely mystified.

She started frantically waving her hand in front of his face, speaking quickly, "Oh no, I broke him. Does this mean you have a concussion? I don't know the symptoms of that!" Slowly, as if speaking to a scared child, "Do you remember your name, sir?"

"Even if I said my name, how would you know if that was actually right?"

She pursed her lips contemplatively, "Fair point". She held up four fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"