"The time is completely out," David observes, standing in front of the wall housing the cuckoo clock, looking up at it as if he's never seen it before. He's right; the two hands of the clock are not even close to where they should be right now. Yesterday, I noticed the same thing about the clock in the study.

Looking at David, his feet firmly planted a foot apart and his fists shoved into his sides, the man suddenly seems a bit too large, too alive, and overwhelming, standing in the decaying old kitchen. I swallow, feeling uncomfortable and uncertain about what to say or do next, so I turn to my comfort zone. Food. I fill the kettle, put it on its stand on the kitchen island and switch it on before I take two mugs from a cupboard and place them on the island counter too. 

And now I've got nothing else to do.

"Would you like some coffee?" At least I have some words to say. That helps. "I only have instant, though. Craig says it tastes like dirty dishwater, especially when I make it. Would you like some?"

"Sounds great; I'd love some, thanks," David says, his eyes still glued to the clock on the wall slightly above his head. Perhaps it hypnotised him, and he didn't hear me right.

Oh, my soul! I've never seen someone this perfectly proportioned before in my entire life. He would look completely at home on the cover of a Studs-R-Us magazine containing all the perfect men of the world. I don't think there is a magazine like that, but gazing at David, I really think there should be, and it should be filled with photographs of him.

"Milk and sugar?" I try a more cryptic question to test his presence of mind and to stop myself from daydreaming like a shameless, love-starved swamp nymph.

"No, thanks. I like my dirty dishwater black and bitter."

"Like life?"

David turns to me and gives me a grin, his brows knitting in a quizzical frown. "Something like that."

He looks at me for a while, his eyes running over me from the top of my head (did I brush my hair?)  to my naked feet. I left my flip-flops at the door with his dirty shoes. I can't tell whether he likes what he's seeing, his eyes are guarded, and he has a slight smile tugging at his lips. 

His eyes are taking their time travelling along their route, studying my long dark hair, sliding over my face, pausing at the cheeky tip of my nose before running over my lips and down my chin. He tilts his head while he looks at my favourite homemade bead necklace and the small silver cross on the black cord.

I wonder if he likes the pretty Broderie Anglaise patterns on my mauve, gipsy-style top as much as I do or perhaps it is the long floral skirt that is deepening his smile. It could also be my array of bangles. He doesn't spend too much time and attention on my toes, and I'm really grateful for that because their nail polish is in dire need of a touch-up. 

It suddenly occurs to me that he is a stranger and that I've invited him into this weird-ass house, and that we are quite alone here in the middle of nowhere. It's just me and David and the loudly ticking cuckoo clock in the kitchen.

Should I be excited or scared?

Perhaps, I should be neither. Except for the rather breathtaking once-over, he's paying more attention to the cuckoo than to me. As if confirming my assessment, he turns back to the clock, and I can breathe again.

Apparently, he is going to unset the cuckoo clock, using his brain or glaring it into submission. It would work on me. I find his eyes very persuasive when they're looking into mine. I'd obey them if they were telling me to do things... like... shut up and make the coffee. Which I do now, adding a heaped spoon of coffee powder to each mug.

For a second, I consider having my coffee black and bitter as well, just to see how the other side lives and all that, but I like my dirty dishwater sweet and milky.

The kettle boils with an ear-splitting shriek just when David steps forward and reaches up to take the clock from the wall. He grunts a startled expletive, almost smashing the clock in his fright, and I hurry to shut the kettle up. It scared me too the first few times it boiled, but I'm used to it now. David has apparently never met this kettle before. It does look rather new.

When I heard it the first time, I grabbed a weapon to defend myself and wondered why the hell it was necessary for an automatic kettle to kick up such a fuss when it's boiling since it switches itself off. Then I realised that it's actually pretty cool. It caters for people like me who always forget that they boiled the kettle for coffee and end up boiling it again and again because every time they remember that they were making coffee, it has already cooled down too much.

This kettle keeps me nicely on track while making coffee.

"Sorry," I whisper, peeking at David, but he is in the process of delicately freeing the clock from the wall. He lays it on its back on an open section of the kitchen island and resumes watching it, bent over it, braced by his arms, the palms of his hands pushed down on either side of the clock.

So much concentration.

I suddenly have a vivid image in my mind of looking up into his face from the perspective of the clock lying between his hands. My heart skips enough beats to render me temporarily unconscious, and with a gasp, I splash some boiling water around the mugs, barely managing to fill both.

That will teach me to try to multitask man-admiring and coffee-making.

David doesn't seem to notice my distress and incompetence; he is too enthralled by the beauty of the clock face. I'm feeling a little insulted now. I'm alive; I'm a woman; why can't he look at me like that? When he was looking at me just now, he didn't look enthralled at all; he just looked slightly amused.

I am completely insane!

Why should he look at me at all? He can gaze lovingly into the face of inanimate wooden objects all he wants. Is this jealousy I'm feeling? Can't be! I literally just met the guy, and that is a cuckoo clock! It's ticking, so it might have a heart, but still... it goes 'coo-coo' at random intervals!

"The hands aren't moving at all," David finally says, straightening and turning away from the clock to look at me instead. He frowns again, his lips quirking as if he wants to laugh when he sees me wrestling with a dishcloth, desperately trying to staunch the flow of the small waterfall I've managed to create on the edge of the counter.

He turns and disappears into the pantry, returning a few seconds later carrying the mop. It is still a little damp from my previous cleaning efforts, but he doesn't seem to notice. I should put it outside to dry out or it is going to smell bad.

I step aside when he lowers the shaggy head to the floor and soaks up my latest disaster.

"Thanks," I whisper, giving him a careless smile. No, I am not feeling embarrassed at all by the fact that a strange man is cleaning up after me.

"Thanks," he echoes me, taking the mug I hold out to him when he's done with the mop. He sits down on one of the bar chairs lined along two sides of the kitchen island when I do so. We're sitting on either side of a corner, the clock on the surface between us.

"You definitely heard it chime?"

He takes a sip of the coffee and doesn't pull a face or spit it out. Perhaps my coffee is just plain dishwater when I don't add milk and sugar to make it dirty.

"Yes," I answer, jumping to my feet to grab the tin of biscuits I keep with the coffee and sugar on the shelf in front of the windows. "I didn't actually see it chime," I explain, opening the tin and placing it within his reach before I take my seat again. "I just heard it going coo-coo among all the other dings and dongs and bongs," I clarify, but I don't think it's very clear because David is frowning again.

Frowning while he's grinning seems to be his default setting... at least while he's dealing with me.

"Makes no sense," he mutters and flashes me a reassuring smile when I'm about to feel offended. "It is clearly ticking... loudly," he adds, "but the hands aren't moving, and neither is the chain. By rights, it shouldn't be ticking at all."

As if on cue, the clock shivers, belching a warbled coo-coo and promptly spits its bird from the little window. It lands on the worktop with a soft thud and lies there wobbling while David and I stare at it.

In his fright, David crumbled the biscuit he was taking towards his lips. Tearing my eyes from the clock to look at him, I watch, mesmerized, as pieces of the cookie fall from his frozen fingers, landing near the clock's bird.

I half expect the expelled bird to jump up, shake its feathers and peck at David's kind offerings, but really looking at it now; I realise that it is not a bird at all.

☼☼☼