I met a man on the street today who asked me for the time. He never told me his name but I feel like I know him all the same. As our paths crossed along the icy sidewalk, he waved for my attention and pointed at his wrist. I looked at my watch and proclaimed, "Seven-thirty." When I matched my gaze to his, I saw the circuitry of his brain firing off messages of perplexity. A muscle below his left eye twitched and his lips began to part, but he never said a thing. I left the man here; a dumbfound statue with a limp jaw and brows tensed in something between thought and struggle.
It was only three o' clock. What a marvel it is that one would put such trust in a stranger to give them the correct time. I didn't lie though, not truly. This watch had been broken for years. I found it when we rummaged through my grandmother's home for items of value after she died. It read 7:30 then, just as it reads now. The rest of my family passed over the useless timepiece but its leather strap and golden bezel captured my eyes. I saw worth. Even a broken watch is right twice a day and I have always loved the feel of leather.