Something possessed him to enroll in a woodworking class at the community college. Which was fine.

Ever since she introduced him to the male members of her family – all tall, rich, and unfaithful to their wives and girlfriends – he sought to “up his man game.” She rolled her eyes whenever he said this and was secretly sad that he felt the need to be different. Nevertheless, every Wednesday for the past eight weeks he came home late. Which was fine. He was making her a clock.

When he climbed in bed – after showering, naturally – he dutifully whispered in her ear his progress. “It’s done,” he said softly. “It’s on the table.”

She jumped up, not bothering to put a stitch of clothing on (this did not bother him), and dashed to the dining room. It was an awful thing – uneven and splintery.

“K,” she said like a homeroom teacher, “it’s not even telling the right time.”

“I know,” he replied proudly. “It’s set to when we first kissed.”

She looked at him incredulously.

He explained. “Your eyes were closed and I looked at my watch. I wanted to remember.”

She began to cry, and he glanced down at his watch.