Five Minutes, Hard Stop

They handed me the stopwatch and a seat

at the far end of the table. I pressed start

and held the face toward me, not her.

Maybe courtesy. Maybe just smart.

She was good—the bar chart, the transition.

But every thirty seconds her eyes

would find my hand, and after each glance

the sentences came back a size

or two smaller. I watched her do the math

behind her face. By minute four

she'd cut three slides and was giving me

the bones of the thing, nothing more.

I thought: I'm only holding a number.

I thought: the number's doing it, not me.

I pressed stop. Said: four fifty-two.

She smiled like she'd been set free

of something. I gave the watch back. I got

more coffee. Said nothing. Her hands

flat on the table again. The bar chart

still up behind her. It stands

to reason I was just the clock.

I keep saying I was just the count.

I wonder if she'd say the same.

I wonder what I'd amount

to, if she told it.