On my way to the office, I walk past a storefront window on West 27th Street that often arrested me. It displayed a clock that I began to covet. Who designs such a thing? What company manufactures it? I know that if I could get a job working for them, I could produce such things as they have never imagined. I would rival the creator of this thing, the genius of which is how it perfectly replicates the harsh overhead bare-bulbed lighting of the VFW hall in which the last supper was held.
Shortly before Christmas, it was missing from the window. Someone had purchased it. I am gnawed by speculation about the buyer. Did he keep it? Did she gift it? How stupid to celebrate the birth of Jesus with a replica of his last meal. Maybe they did some sort of alpha-omega decorating, placing it next to the manger scene.
And didn't the storekeeper have another hundred of them in stock? I can't believe they sold out right down to the floor model.
Love and beauty must be claimed when they cross your path. Borne away, they do not return, though you should look over your shoulder and call out as the seconds turn instantly into years.