Page 56 of 72 Hours of You

3:34:19

“That’s them,” I whisper, grabbing Peter’s arm and pulling him back toward an alley. I don’t know why I’m acting like we’re a couple of spies in some shitty Hulu drama, but I can’t help it. This whole thing is so … unprecedented.

The Clocker is an ultra-thin woman decked out head to toe in black Lululemon gear, a severe ponytail pulling her eyebrows back. No wonder her clock was a blur. She was running.

She stops and bends over, stretching, her hands on her black leggings, then touching her toes without even struggling.

“Damn,” Peter says. “She’s pretty young.” That’s the Botox. “How much time does she have left?”

“Like basically nothing,” I say. The runner stands back up and stretches her arms, her thumbs in the little sleeve loops. “She’s got about three and a half hours to go.” My own feet get tingly and hot with the urge to run as the pink numbers sear my eyes. This is really close to a Zero Hour. When the numbers are this low, it starts to feel like I’m some voyeuristic creeper ogling the Clocker in their last moments as a sentient being.

The runner shakes her hands out and does a couple little hops up and down on the balls of her feet. God, I hate when runners do that. I could never. It’s so Look at me, I’m running! My titties are bouncing! Like, get over yourself. Although she probably doesn’t close her eyes when she runs like she’s playing some fucked-up, one-sided game of chicken with death, so like, whatever I guess.

“Do you think it’s a heart attack?” Peter asks.

“I have no idea how she’s going to die,” I say. “Maybe a heart thing. Maybe she gets too excited about keeping her pace and gets run over in a crosswalk. Maybe an ex-lover smothers her at a motel.” I shrug. “It’s anyone’s guess.”

“Yeah …” Peter says. He looks slightly disturbed for a second, and I wonder if maybe he can’t actually handle the reality of what it means to seek out Clockers like this, but then his face relaxes and he says, “All right, well, what should we get her? It doesn’t seem like she’d be the kind of person to enjoy a hot dog.”

The runner smooths out her already immaculate ponytail and does a few high kicks as if this little mid-run show is a normal thing runners do. Like, is she trolling for middle-aged meatheads or something? This is a full-on performance of the character: Divorced Suburban Jersey Mom Who Married for Money and Now Wants to Get Railed by a Bad Boy Like the Characters in Her Wattpad Stories.

“Maybe we should tell her we shamed an immigrant for trying to exist,” I suggest. “That’ll definitely make her day.”

“Come on,” Peter says. “I bet she’s nice.”

“Her?” I scoff. “She looks like the person who shows up to Thanksgiving and purposefully misuses your cousin’s pronouns and then tells your mom the turkey is undercooked before driving home drunk and being like Oops, I’m sure that thing I hit was just a deer.”

“Jesus. Why would you think that?” he says, genuinely surprised, as if he’s not looking at the exact same person I am.

“The ponytail,” I say. Obviously.

Peter squints at me. “You wear a ponytail when you run. Pretty much everyone with long hair does.”

“It’s different. Her ponytail is the ponytail of an entitled bitch.”

Peter pushes his lips together like he’s holding in a laugh.

“Oh my god, whatever,” I say. “It’s true.”

“I guess we’ll find out when we talk to her,” Peter says.

“Hurry up before she starts running again.”

“Okay. Let’s just get her a water. That’s a nice, neutral thing.”

There’s a bodega on the corner, so Peter ducks in and comes out fifty-seven seconds later (thank you, clock) with a bottle of Fiji.

“Oh my god.” I roll my eyes.

“What?” he says. “It could be her last water ever.” He holds the bottle out to me. “Here you go.”

“Here I go? I don’t think so. You’re the one who wants to make friends with Cruella de Vil,” I say.

Peter pauses for a second, like he’s waiting for me to change my mind. And I get it. It was my idea to do this whole thing, but now that she’s there and I’m here I just … can’t do it.

“Suit yourself,” Peter says. He takes a little breath, like he’s amping himself up, looks both ways, and jogs across the street.

He walks up to the runner and gives her a small, low wave. Her pointed eyebrows come together in a sharp V and she takes a step back, crossing her arms. I knew it. The bitch meter never fails.