The Countdown

Part One: April

Part One: April's POV

One hour, twenty-nine minutes, fifty-one seconds.

As I amble through the wide, bustling streets of downtown San Francisco, with the balmy July sun beating down on the back of my neck, one lone thought dominates my mind: the thin plastic clock on my wrist and today's fulfillment of its long-awaited prophecy. The dazzling sunlight glints off its shiny, ductile surface, and the bright ray of reflected illumination momentarily blinds me as I reach towards my face to tuck a loose curl behind my ear. Small black numbers fill the compact screen, and my heart flutters anxiously as I read the display for the millionth time today.

One hour, twenty-one minutes, seventeen seconds.

Doing my best to ignore my pounding heart, I continue walking--though somewhat shakily--and allow my scattered thoughts to wander. Ever since I can remember, the shiny piece of plastic donning my thin, pale wrist has conjured up a wide range of emotions. As a naïve little girl, I never quite understood that the ticking numbers meant something more significant than just meeting a cute boy. I never fully grasped the concept that with every day, hour, minute, and second that elapsed, I was that much closer to meeting the person I was destined to spend the rest of my life with--my soulmate. I had received the cliché "Clock Talk" from my parents as a young child, as most kids do. When children turn thirteen and cross the invisible line into teenage-hood, they must choose whether or not they would like a clock installed and activated; this is called The Great Decision. Kind of over-dramatic, if someone was to ask me, but I've never been one to question authority.

Following the clock's installation, I remember curiously fingering the cool, green plastic around my wrist and wondering why it mattered so much. And, as most children usually do, I tuned the Clock Talk out and hadn't bothered to concern myself with the count until a few years ago, sometime around my eighteenth birthday.

Just then, I come to an abrupt halt at a bus stop, narrowly avoiding running right into someone. I offer a quick, distracted apology just as a city bus pulls up along the curb. The large vehicle groans as the doors creak open and people flood out, dispersing in different directions into the throng of civilians crowding the streets. I take a cursory scan of those stepping out of the bus and smile when I see a familiar face. I begin to make my way through the current of people and am halfway through when my best friend since freshman year, Caiden, spots me. His green eyes light up when we make eye contact, and he smiles as he makes his way toward me.

"Hey!" I greet with a broad smile, reaching up and wrapping my arms around his shoulders in a brief hug. I feel him hug back before returning the greeting. "Thanks for agreeing to come with me today."

"No problem," he replies as we start walking to God-only-knows where.

"You look really pretty," he adds after giving me a quick once-over. "Your hair looks nice in curls."

"Thank you," I acknowledge with an appreciative grin. I can't help but steal casual glances at the still-ticking clock as we continue to walk aimlessly around, up and down side-streets and wandering into random shops that line the road.

Forty-five minutes, thirty-three seconds.

For most of the walk, we talk and exchange friendly banter. Whenever I begin to feel on-edge again, he seems to sense as much and cracks a bad joke to ease the tension. In fact, for a few minutes, I even forget why I'm so nervous. Another momentary glimpse of my upturned wrist, however, and my nerves once again ensue.

Thirty-two minutes, five seconds.

"Gosh, I'm so freaking nervous," I confess audibly as we pause outside of a ramshackle antique shop. I hastily wipe my hopelessly-sweaty palms on the skirt of my floral print dress and try to swallow the onset of apprehensive excitement.