Sunlight falls on the life size clock. A girl stands in the centre, facing the curvaceous 12, holding long stemmed roses. She is wearing a red and white dress. The hands of the clock come together in front of her, like an arrow coming out of her small bleeding heart.

The hands move around her. She feels important for a brief while but gets used to it soon enough. She looks around her, at the hands and the harsh afternoon sun, and then she waits. Her hair moves in wave like ripples. She appears to be moving with time. She looks to her right now. Her eyes fill with liquid anxiety and her hands hold on to the roses with an iron like grip.

The sun walks away, in the evening calm, without so much as a second glance at her. The anger has seeped out of her in small dark patches on her back and in streaks across her face. She has her back to the start of her day, her life has literally turned around.

The darkness covers the clock and time seems to stop, even though we know it never really does.

She’s gone, while the hands move around dutifully, working hard to draw the day to an end. The crumpled roses lie in a heap where she once stood, smelling of discarded love.