Chapter 5 - The Buckle Hole That Didn't Fit
The hallway off the dining room was narrower than I remembered, with the wallpaper pressing in warm from the candles and the air smelling like lemon polish and old carpet. She didn't let go of my forearm until we were past the doorway, and even then her fingers stayed close, like she was afraid I'd turn back.
"Here," she said. "Light's better."
There was a wall sconce halfway down, one of those little yellow bulbs that made everything look tired. I put my left hand up under it without thinking, palm down. The tattoos on the back of my hand looked darker there, the ink pulling tight over the knuckles.
She didn't touch the watch right away. She just looked.
"Hold still," she said. Then she turned my wrist slowly, first outward, then inward, watching the way the black leather sat against the skin.
It was too tight. I realized that only when she pointed at it — or rather, when she didn't point, just pressed one fingertip lightly above the edge where the strap met my wrist and left a pale dent that filled back in too slow.
"You wear it loose usually?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Two fingers. I hate it tight."
I could hear the dining room behind us, silverware moving, my sister saying something low to one of the men standing behind the table. Nobody had followed us. That felt wrong and also like a relief.
She leaned in closer. "Look at the buckle."
I looked. The tang was in the fourth hole from the end. There was a pale ring around the second hole, a worn spot where the leather had stretched and softened over years. The fourth hole was darker inside, newer, the edge still sharp like it hadn't been used much.
"I use the second," I said. "Always the second."
My voice sounded strange in that hallway, too loud. I dropped it.
She nodded once, didn't say I told you so or anything like that. She just eased the strap up with her thumb and forefinger, lifting it enough to see underneath without unbuckling it. The leather pulled. My skin pulled with it.
"When did you put it on today?" she asked.
This morning. That was supposed to be easy. I had the routine. Shower, coffee, shirt, watch left wrist, check the time against the microwave. I did it every day in the apartment bathroom with the fan running.
But trying to picture it, I got the shower and I got the coffee, and then there was a blank space where the bedroom should have been. Like a missed step.
"I don't —" I started, then stopped. "I woke up on the couch. Afternoon light. My mouth was dry. Watch was already on."
She watched my face while I said it. "You don't nap on the couch."
"No."
"Did you drink last night? Anything new for sleep?"
"No," I said. "I mean, wine at dinner yesterday. Not enough to black out."
She gently turned my wrist again so the underside caught the sconce light. The strap had left a deep red line, wider on one side than the other, like it had been yanked and fastened fast by someone who didn't care which hole, just that it held.
"Feel this," she said, guiding my right fingertip to the back of the strap near the lugs. "Feel that edge?"
I felt it. A rough spot, sticky almost. The leather was scuffed there, the stitching pressed flat.
"This isn't how you had it," she said quietly. "Strap's been swapped or taken off and put back tight. Recently. Today."
I stared at the fourth hole. I kept thinking about my own hands in the morning, how they always fumbled the tang once before it went in. I had no memory of fumbling today. I had no memory of the watch at all until I'd checked the time in the car and thought, huh, tight.
Down the hall, a door clicked. Shoes on wood. I pulled my hand back a fraction, instinct, and she let me, but she kept her eyes on the wrist.
"Don't adjust it back yet," she said. "Leave it like you found it."
I nodded. My heart was working hard for standing still. The sconce buzzed faintly above us.
May you like
"Okay," I said.
We stood there another second, both looking at the watch that was mine and wasn't sitting like mine, while the dining room waited behind us to pretend nothing had happened.
