Running Late
If time never stops running, how come I’m always late?
(Story #3 in my💯Story Challenge)
I slept in, missed the damn bus, and now I’m running down the sidewalk in a suit, a tie, and dress shoes.
“Excuse me, pardon me, coming through!” I called out, trying to apologize for my one-man stampede act.
I’m running as fast as I can. My suit’s getting sweaty and I’ve loosened my tie and I can’t stop to retie it and I think I just almost trampled over a ninety year old gent with a walking stick that he came dangerously close to using on me.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to get fired again.
I’ve lost so many jobs this way. I never seem to get out of the house on time to get anywhere.
Do you have ever have that trouble?
“Timmy Jones,” my mother used to tell me. “Whatever you do, make sure that you own a wristwatch. You can’t go through being late every time.”
That ought to be what they carve on my tombstone.
Here lies Timothy Jones. He failed the Timex torture test.
I glanced up in the sky, but there was nothing up there this morning but rain clouds and regret.
