At first I didn't believe it. Well, you wouldn't. I knew I was somehow losing
time. Eight hours of uninterrupted sleep left me tired and irritable. I never
managed to finish any of my tasks at work by the deadline.
Making dinner in the evening didn't seem to leave space for going out or even
watching television. But I blamed myself. I told myself I was getting old, that
I was slowing down, that I would have to adjust and try to take on fewer jobs,
expect less, sleep more.
Someone at work mentioned, quite casually, having heard of time thieves. We
were standing around the chilled water dispenser, the way you do on a warm morning.
The speaker was a woman who claimed that celebrities who held down at least
two jobs and four boyfriends as well as having homes and tables worthy of inclusion
in glossy magazines, did it all by stealing time from their less fortunate sisters,
so that they had more than twenty four hours in any one day, leaving their victims
with less.
I listened, and wondered if it would apply to men, too. Idle speculation; a
fancy I hadn't time for, quite literally!
But that night I caught him. He looked so sleek and well fed, like a pampered
cat. He had a moustache rather than whiskers but the general effect was the
same. He was tiptoeing through my apartment, humming to himself and making little
chopping gestures with his long delicate fingers. I shouldn't have been awake
but a police car and an ambulance were chasing down the street, sirens blaring,
flashing lights bathing the room in a blue glow.
I'm not sure how I managed to grab him. I suppose he was startled, and had never
expected to be caught in the act. He was all smiles and apologies and soothing
words. When those didn't work he tried soothing strokes. I accepted those, without
prejudice, of course. His fingers felt even better than they looked.
Eventually he realised I was not going to smile sweetly and say all was forgiven
and forgotten. Nor was I going to permit him to continue - with the theft, I
mean; the stroking was another matter entirely. So things were at a standstill.
I couldn't exactly call the police. Imagine it. "Officer, there's this guy in
my bedroom and he's been stealing my time." On second thoughts, don't even imagine
it.
The standstill was a metaphorical one. It didn't extend to our bodies, which
were continuing a conversation without us. My own fingers seemed inordinately
interested in his pointed ears and the wings folded against his shoulders. Did
I mention that he was wearing tight jeans and not much else?
He sighed and kissed me instead of talking. When I managed to breathe again
I took a really good look at his gleaming skin, his elfin features and his eyes
that were somehow the wrong shade of brown, even in the semi-darkness.
"You, you're, you're a..." I didn't feel able to say it. He laughed and continued
to stroke.
"Wait! At least tell me your name! I don't think I want to go further with an
anonymous stranger." I wanted to talk to him as well as whatever else we were
doing. He laughed again.
"My name? I think not! Names have such power, you know. You could call me 'darling'
or 'sweetheart' or just 'come here' would do. And we aren't exactly strangers,
are we? After all, I've been living your hours. And don't start again - I've
said I'm sorry. I got carried away and took too many but it's too late now.
They're mine."
Power? I remembered stories like Rumpelstiltskin from childhood tales and began
to think. Not hard. Most of my mind was taken up with responding to my beautiful
thief in actions rather than words.
I called him all sorts of names: ordinary, everyday names like John and Steven;
unusual names from history or literature like Tristram or Brutus; names with
fae connotations like Robin or Oberon. No luck.
Then I realised, all of a sudden. We were locked in an embrace and he was in
no condition to escape when I whispered his name in his ear. He gasped, possibly
from my ministrations and possibly because I'd unlocked his secret.
Then he broke away, muttering curses, and leapt onto the windowsill. He was
quite naked now, and a perfect sight. The window was open and he launched himself
on those lovely wings. He flew like lightning half way to the moon and back
before I had time to blink, then crept down from the sill into my room and curled
up on the bed again.
The next half hour or so was bliss. I thought I'd lost him, you see.
Afterwards, he murmured into my hair, "I don't know how you worked it out. You
know I'm in your power now, don't you? What's mine is yours, and that includes
your stolen time. But you're responsible for me, and I won't leave. I have no
other means of support!"
As I watched him, dawn was breaking and I could see him clearly. The glow left
his skin. His ears rounded like petals closing. His wings vanished or were re-absorbed.
His eyes were still brown, this time like peat pools. He was still incredibly
beautiful. I had no objection to being responsible for such a creature.
So that's how matters stand. He's quite high maintenance. I have to buy him
gorgeous clothes to make up for the lost wings, he likes outlandish foods, exotic
sex toys, and satin sheets. But he was right about my time returning to me.
I'm money poor and time rich, with a boyfriend called Procrastination, and I
wouldn't have it any other way.