Sciences Participating with Arts & Culture in Education

Timing

Illustrated by EVEEN KWAN

He wrapped his calloused fingers around the cup of his latte, his plaid sleeve lifting, exposing a tattoo that read “be still," etched in red ink. His knee bounced up and down, the April sun glinting against his exposed kneecap through his torn jeans. He drummed the café table with his fingers and the big hand moved again; 5:08. She was eight minutes late. His fingers floated over to the screen of his phone, which lit up, displaying no missed messages. He took a deep breath and then lifted his cup to his lips.

Outside sat his old Volkswagen, the one his father had given him four years before when he graduated high school, the one he'd first kissed her in.  There were only seven minutes left on the meter. She was supposed to be here at five. They’d get coffee, he’d suggest they take a drive to the beach, she’d hesitate, insisting it’s not a good idea; she was just dropping off his stuff. He’d insist too.

In the trunk, he’d stashed his guitar; she’d be too suspicious if she saw it in the back seat. They’d walk along the beach and their hands would touch briefly as they stumbled over the uneven terrain of sand. He’d tell her about his gig in New York, she’d tell him about her visit to her parent’s place in North Carolina. When they’d come back to the car, he’d pull the guitar out of the trunk, start playing, ignoring her pleas;  please don’t do this, Cole, its over. But it wasn’t over, and his song would make her see it. For nights he’d strummed that guitar until it became the perfect expression of his love. He’d written and rewritten lyrics on bar napkins and fast food receipts. He couldn’t wait any longer. It wasn’t over and the longer he waited to show her that, the less likely she’d be to agree.

He lifted the cup once again to his lips, tipping it further and further with no results. Empty. The clock stared at him on the left wall beside a painting of a beige coffee cup; 5:13.

***

Her hands gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white, her index fingernail engraving a permanent line into her thumb. Ahead of her: two red lights staring at her as the cars remained immobile. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a flash as the zero turned into a one on the digital clock; 5:01. She was officially late, but then again, she always was. She reached back, rummaging through her purse, pulling out her phone, and cursed as the little battery sign appeared, demanding to be charged.

She turned on the radio and laid back into the head rest. He can’t leave, surely he would wait. He had to wait. After days of debating whether or not she’d show up to his desperate plea for “closure”, she had finally decided to go. Though it wasn’t closure she wanted. The very idea of closure stole the air from her lungs and brought tears to her eyes at night. The past few months apart had been necessary, yes, but she felt that closure was not what they needed. She had needed time to find herself, which she did, and now she needed him.

The cars crept slowly ahead of her and she pressed the gas pedal, her winter tires crunching against the bare gravel. She would ask him to change her tires. Right after she told him she still loved him.

There only stood two intersections between her car and the parking garage nearest the café. The light ahead of her turned green once again; she led the way across the intersection, thankful to be finally moving. She’d be there any minute now, 5:07. She reached into her purse for her red lipstick; Relentlessly Red. It was the one she’d worn on their first date, the one that had stained his white shirt at her sister’s wedding. As she lifted the stick to her lips,  something appeared in the corner of her eye. She turned to face a red pickup truck, speeding through the intersection, knocking the lipstick from her hand.

The sound of her horn resonated in the air as her blood painted the window.

***

In the hospital lobby, her sister and brother in law sat, hands locked together, staring at the clock: 5:50. It had been more than half an hour; no one had brought them news. The sliding doors opened and Cole ran in, breathless. They exchanged a look but shared no words as he took a seat beside them. He let his face fall to his hands, trying to wipe away the reality that was trying to tear him apart. She couldn’t be gone. They were so close--to being together, to happiness.

In an operating room at the end of the hall, Dr. Johnson frantically applied pressure to Angie’s chest, an action she had been doing for the past twelve minutes, a bead of sweat forming on her brow; up, down, up, down. She sighed and let her hands fall to her side. Her lips opened but no sound came out. Looking down, she tried again, this time simply muttering something to a nurse by her side who scribbled words onto a chart.

Time of death; 5:56pm.