A stitch in time can cost you more...

I could always use a little more time, and it just so happened that the gentleman seated across the aisle from me wore a rather nice black and gold Movado. I wore a flat gray quartz, well-worn and nothing to look at—but it held time to perfection. Only amateurs wore anything with more than a ten-second variance. (Per annum, mind you, not some department store model that could lose thirty ticks every month.)

It wasn't just the old man's timepiece that caught my eye; it was the fact that he was running a full two minutes fast. How long had the fool been walking around carrying all that extra time, oblivious to the opportunities it presented?

"Nice watch you have there," I said, loud enough to get his attention.

He peered over the top of his paper, unsure if I was addressing him or the clueless skirt-and-blouse-wearing office drone to his right. I hid my normal wolfish grin and offered a sheepish smile.

"Your watch—" I said again and brandished my own plain affair. I tapped the face in case my words were lost over the steady click-clack cadence of the train, "—it's very sharp."

His interest piqued, he folded the paper and laid it across his lap. "Not too many young men care to wear a traditional timepiece nowadays."

"Savages," I replied, to which he laughed. When he was done, I continued to soften him up. "May I have a look?"

"Be my guest," he said and extended his arm across the aisle towards me. "But mind the fingerprints… please."

I gave him an earnest nod. "Of course," I replied and took him by the wrist, making a show of examining the face. I oohed and aahed at the fine cut of the inlay and the understated elegance of the black leather strap.

I made sure to hold his gaze fast while my thumb swept counterclockwise over the minute hand as I whispered a perfectly timed incantation.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that last bit," he prompted as he sat back in his seat.

I held up my watch again. "I'm afraid it will be some time before I can afford anything as nice as that."

He laughed at my pun and added his own: "Your 'time' will come, young man."

The brakes squealed, and the train swayed as we entered the station. I was prepared to make my exit, but he rose from his seat instead, and we exchanged goodbyes.

I looked down at my quartz and smiled. One hundred and twenty seconds stitched in time—enough to skip past a problem or even slide back for a quick do-over.

I glanced over my shoulder as the train began to pull away and nearly jumped out of my seat. He stood outside the window and made a show of checking the time. "Thank you," he shouted through the glass, "You've relieved me of the worst two minutes I've had all year. I wouldn't try using them if I were you, though." A wolfish grin split his face as the platform disappeared from view.

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