Dual Time
Dual Time
by Joshua Matvichuk
The Wallace collection would be Emmanuel’s refuge from London’s downpour that September morning. It was just after ten when Marcus crossed the marble threshold shaking off the rain. The city was still half-asleep, caught between drizzle and daydream. Within, he found himself surrounded by centuries of history hidden in brushstrokes and adorned in gold leaf, marble, and silence. He paused in the center of the gallery, the parquet floor faintly echoing beneath his shoes. The light shifted across the room, grazing the gilt frames, catching on his cuff, and finally glinting off the gold edge of his watch.
He adjusted it absentmindedly, more out of ritual than necessity. Outside, London moved at its usual tempo taxis hissing on wet streets, church bells marking the hour somewhere out of sight. He exhaled, took a slow step forward, and smiled at the absurd luxury of having time to himself.
Far away, on the Spanish coast, the sun had already burned through the morning haze. Maria was aboard Tarita , a small boat moored just off the cliffs of Altea. The town rose behind her in pale stone and terracotta, the Mediterranean stretching before her like a sheet of glass. She reclined against the deck cushion, sunglasses catching the same light Marcus had only imagined through cloud.
Her watch gold-cased, tan leather strap gleamed against her wrist as she reached for a glass of water beading in the heat. She checked it once, quietly. Just past noon. She smiled to no one in particular. The world was in motion; time, as always, kept perfect rhythm.
By afternoon, Marcus had left the museum and wandered west, the sky a muted pewter above the Georgian terraces. He drifted past antique shops, nodding to familiar windows, each reflection carrying some version of himself from years before. In a few hours he would change Marleybone for Westminster and meet friends for dinner but for now, he lingered.
Maria, on the other hand, was already ashore. The sea breeze tangled her hair as she climbed down the worn steps of the promenade. At high tide, the rocks shone dark and smooth, carved by generations of fishermen and painters who’d stood in the same salt air. She ran a hand along the stone, the gold face of her watch glinting softly against the ochre. Glancing at the time she remembered Emmanuel’s smile sliding the watch box across the table. In that instant, the day felt suspended like she too was part of some painting half-finished and timeless.
Evening arrived differently for each of them. In London, the light dimmed to silver and shadow. Marcus fastened the top button of his dinner jacket, adjusting the line of his lapel. The reflection of his aventurine dial flickered briefly in the shop windows along Chiltern Street as he walked. A small constellation peeking from his cuff. Walking into his favourite Italian, he realised he was early.
In Altea, the heat finally broke. Elena, now in a checkered sundress, changed from her malachite dial to the aventurine. The switch felt ceremonial; the kind of quiet transformation that signaled the day’s second act. Down the cobbled streets she went, toward the taberna where her friends waited. Late, of course. When she arrived, laughter rose from the stone cellar below. She descended the steps, slipping through the archway with the familiarity of a regular. Without a word, she reached into the rack and chose a bottle of Vereda del Águila, the cool glass humming under her touch. If she would arrive late, she would not arrive empty-handed.
Across the continent, after another fast paced dinner surrounded by colleagues, Marcus stepped into the warmth of a Mayfair pub. The place was half-full, amber light reflecting off cut glass and polished brass. He loosened his tie, leant against the bar, and checked his watch once more not to mark the hour, but the thought of it. Somewhere south, the same hands turned over the same dial, half a world away yet perfectly aligned. He laughed softly to himself, raising his glass in a quiet, private toast. She, an ocean away, was doing much the same. The watches ticked on two separate rhythms bound by a single, unspoken pulse. He was early. She was late.
