The watchmaker is not personally fond of watches, in fact he loses track of what time it is quite often. He has nothing against clocks mind you, he just does not particularly enjoy them, they're just clocks. His profession is outdated and his little shop just outside of wall street mostly services groomed businessmen who crave the prestige of having their expensive watches taken apart and put back together by a quiet old man in a dusty shop. He smiles at them and they grin back and leave their business cards behind as a power move that the watchmaker understands but does not care about. He adjusts the cogs and winds the spindles so they tick like the ones you see in the movies. The businessmen seem to like that and recommend him to other businessmen. He is fun at parties and he makes jokes aside to his wife that they both laugh at, and everyone else laughs along with because they are a charming couple. Sometimes while he works he hums made up melodies to himself that he thinks sound nice, but never quite come out how he wants them to. When the watches are finished he puts them on a set of small pillows that he brought to his shop from home. His wife insisted and he didn't mind, so one morning like any other he brought them to the shop to make her happy, he enjoys making her happy. She always says that the watchmaker is a funny man and has many charming things about him. The watchmaker always rubs behind his ear when his wife mentions this because it makes him self conscious and then cannot stop thinking about how his glasses sit on his face. She thinks this is charming. The watchmaker does not wear a watch, it chafes at his wrist no matter which side he wears it on. In fact, the watchmaker wonders why people call him the watchmaker, as he does not make watches and only fixes them. He supposes if he really sat down and worked at it he could build a watch, but the watchmaker has never had any specific reason to do so. The watchmaker has more in common with clocks than an affinity if it were to be really thought about. The watchmaker would always make little ticking noises with his tongue when he was thinking and his eyes would swing back and forth over a person with a friendly patience similar to the steady sway of a grandfather clock. His face was broad and it always looked like he had something to tell you, but never the time, because he seldom knew that himself. Day to day he was steady and reliable like a clock, even when his wife died. At the funeral he wore a brown suit because his wife always said he looked good in brown. All of their friends showed up to the funeral and everyone said the things they’re supposed to say for this kind of thing. Some said that the watchmaker's wife was a good woman and the watchmaker wholeheartedly agreed. Some said that she was a lucky woman to have married the watchmaker and he should be happy that he gave her such a good life. The watchmaker rubbed behind his ear like he always did and said thank you. Others tried to comfort the watchmaker with apologies and promises of support. Everything you'd expect to be said at a funeral was said and the watchmaker responded appropriately. He cried a bit like you'd expect a man who loved his wife to cry, but he wished he would sob. He shook hands by clasping his other hand over the shakers hand to show he was genuinely thanking them for the condolences like you’d expect a dignified old man to do. But he wished he would fall to his knees and drag them down with him, his hand still clutching theirs. A few businessmen even came because it was a formal occasion and it was easy to say they were sorry for the loss to the man who fixes their watches. The watchmaker showed up at his shop the next day feeling numb like you'd expect him to. He hummed his one off melodies as he normally would and put the watches on the pillows like he always did. He wished he would smash the watches that had the gall to twitch their hands at him, almost like the cocked head that accompanies a questioning gaze. He wished he would stop working so well, he wished the aged machinations of his being would click and twang out of place. He wished he would stop making the little ticking noises he made when he worked on the watches. He grew to hate the watches and the city around him. All the clocks strapped to people's wrists, going down the list and checking off every second in the day. He wished he would go mad, he wished the cacophony of the little shifting gears in his shop would make him shout a course and prolonged scream. He grew manic with sanity over the course of the next few months. He fixed watches with mechanical fervor, volatile and bottled emotions driving his delicate finger movements and vibrating rage powering the hand that turned the tiny gears back into place. Something in him swung ajar, a screw was loose but not undone. All worked as normal. The businessmen came into his shop and had their watches modified so they counted seconds better and other people filtered in and out, curious to see the work that the watchmaker did. All the while everyone saw the watchmaker going about his life and told each other that he was doing better. They asked him concerned questions like you'd expect them to ask. He fixed clocks like you’d expect him to. But no one seemed to ask, who fixes the watchmaker?