Every morning, he picks out a timepiece to work on, something to pass the time while waiting for customers or for five o'clock to roll by. Today it's an antique cuckoo clock he got from a flea market in the West Village. Reverently, he carries it downstairs and gently places it on his workbench, spreading out his tools before putting on his eye loupes. He opens the panel, and he imagines it's much the same as undressing a woman, exposing her imperfections for all the world to see.
The clock's not broken, it's just dirty; the previous owner had squirted oil in the wrong place, in the wrong amounts. It made a corrosive paste, and the gear teeth are worn. Whoever tried to repair it dunk the whole thing in cleaning fluid without even checking the mainsprings. Gabriel frowns. Carefully, he disassembles everything, the gears, the springs, the bearings on the clock plate. His fingers move swiftly, reaching in and gutting the insides. It's a timepiece unskinned, naked and delicate. And when he fixes it, the timepiece winks, the little wooden bird singing in his ears. This is what it's like to be broken, he thinks, tightening the screws. This is what it's like to be fixed again.
The girl Gabriel's dating is a sweet little thing, someone his mother hand-picked from church. She's Irish, and a spattering of freckles dance on her cheeks. Gabriel can see the freckles on her chest too, and he wonders briefly about her breasts and her stomach and everything else beneath. She tells him she's a virgin, but she'd like that to change. She holds his hand when she says it, and when she squeezes his fingers, he nearly comes right there.
"So can I see it?" she asks. She won't look at him.
"Now?" he asks. She nods, still keeping her eyes down.
"Yeah," she says. "I've never seen a real one before."
He feels himself blush; in the dark, he wonders briefly if she's blushing, too.
"Okay," he says. He doesn't move.
"Okay," she says. "I hope you don't mind—"
"—no "
"It's just that I really like you," she finishes with conviction, "and I'd like to see you."
A car squeals; they sit awkwardly in the dark.
"Do you want me to do it?" he asks, "or are you . . ." he gestures helplessly.
She shakes her head, her eyes briefly flicking upward. "I think you'd better do it," she says.
He nods again and reaches for his belt buckle.
His hands clumsily unloop the leather strip, his fingers like sausages trying to unhook the metal clasp. He's moving too fast; she reaches out and grasps his hand.
"It's okay," she says. "Take your time."
He nods slowly and takes a deep breath. She drops his hand so he can unbutton the top of his khakis. He swallows hard and quickly tugs his pants down from his hips and to his knees. There is an awful pause as they both stare in horror at his boy's briefs and the naked whiteness of his thighs.
"If I had known, I would have worn boxers," he says.
"Are you okay?" she asks. He gingerly fingers the waistband.
"Yeah," he says.
"Because we don't have to if—"
"I want to," he says. He closes his eyes as he slowly peels back the white fabric. His erection gently swells up and out, gracefully unfolding from the arc of his body. She's mesmerized by it, her lips part just a little.
"What does it look like when it's not erect?" she asks.
He stares at the ground. "It's kind of small," he says. "It just looks bigger when it's like this."
"Can I touch it?" she asks. He swallows and nods. His stomach tightens when she grazes his skin with her fingertips.
"Take off your shirt," she says.
Wordlessly, he pulls his shirt over his head and sits there, naked except for the pants around his knees. He kicks his pants off while she pulls off her own shirt and unclasps her bra.
"I've never seen a naked girl before," he says.
"I'm not naked, I'm still wearing pants," she says.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks.
"Now?" she asks.
"Yeah."
"Yeah," she says. "Okay."
He clumsily pivots toward her, self-consciously angling his torso so that their bodies won't touch. He strains toward her, catching her lips as she leans forward, tugging off her pants. They're both naked now, he's breathing harder, his breath pulsing against the skin of her cheek. He feels the dampness of her skin, and he sees the freckles splaying the tops of her breasts, which are milk white and almost translucent. The edge of his glasses dig into her forehead. "We have to stop," he says. "I don't think I can control myself."
"No, don't," she says, and she grabs his penis in her hand. His eyes widen when she brings out a condom seemingly out of nowhere; she rolls it on fast, before crawling forward and pushing herself into him.
Gabriel pushes. Her eyes clench shut and she draws in a sharp breath. Gabriel pushes again. She cries out, "OW!"
"Maybe this isn't a good idea," Gabriel says. His penis already starts to wilt. "Maybe we should stop."
"No," she says, and she pulls him toward her. He can feel her tighten. He knows it hurts, but she keeps pulling him down until soon enough, instinct takes over. Mindlessly, he starts pumping and he feels the tension build up inside of him. He comes without warning, his penis twitching pathetically inside of her.
The stunned look on her face knifes through him, and he feels a wave of self-disgust. He rolls off of her and tries to pull her close, but she flinches away. He realizes he's still wearing his glasses.
He retreats to the corner of the room, gingerly picking his clothes up. Neither of them speaks. He dresses quickly, yanking his shirt over his head. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and he sees the angry red crease across his stomach where the waistband had dug into his skin.
When he gets home, he calls her to see if she's okay; she doesn't pick up. Days turn to weeks turn to months, and finally he walks by her apartment to see how she's doing. Just as he's about to knock on her door, he sees her walking up the street, arms linked with another man. Gabriel's face burns. He turns and walks away.
He stands up in the train where he has been sitting and looks out of the door windows, waiting for the doors to slide open. He senses the shift in weather, the slight gust of wind as he sees the people around him hunched over with their collars turned up. The doors slide open and he turns and moves through the crowd, walking out into the platform and upstairs to the street. Under his arm, he has his newest possession: a German clock he found from an antiques dealer in New Jersey. The wood is cracked and the varnish is peeling, but with a little work, Gabriel knows he can make it beautiful.
Gabriel puts on his eye loupes, and he lays the timepiece reverently on his workbench. His fingers trace the burnished patterns in the wood, and he imagines it quivering under his hands. Outside, he can hear a woman laughing; he looks up and sees a couple walking by his shop window. The woman is laughing and her head is thrown back; the man is holding her around the waist. To his annoyance, they walk inside. Gabriel's jaw tightens. He turns back to the clock.
"I think we made a mistake," she said, and she covered herself with a pillow. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have forced you."
The timepiece is hideous; Gabriel doesn't know what the hell he was thinking. He pushes it aside and takes off his eye loupes.
"Excuse me?"
Gabriel looks up to see the man standing in front of him, his girlfriend or whoever-she-is in tow. "Is this for sale?"
The man gestures to the cuckoo clock hanging behind Gabriel's bench.
"It's a showpiece," Gabriel says. "I only repair timepieces, I don't sell them." Which is a lie, but Gabriel doesn't want to give the man the satisfaction.
Gabriel turns away and bends his head forward, staring at the clock. From the corner of his eye, he sees the man standing expectantly, waiting for Gabriel to further acknowledge him. Gabriel doesn't; Gabriel takes out his tools and starts working on the clock. The man frowns and the girlfriend tugs on his arm. They turn and leave, the door shutting softly behind them.