The little woodcutter wheels out of his little thatched cottage, spins to the left, raises his axe and whacks it against a fallen tree. When the axe connects with the wood, a pretty little ding sounds, followed by another. Then the woodcutter spins in an about face and wheels back into his cottage to await the next hour.
Regina pats the sweet little mechanical clock and smiles, remembering how she acquired this antique timepiece from Gold. She'd tricked him, of course, trading him (so she claimed) a guarantee not to install a parking meter in front of his shop, where he parked his Cadillac on snowy days (the rest of the year, he just walked from his pink house—another little trick of hers—she'd promised him a mansion but didn't guarantee good taste in it). After he'd traded her the clock, she'd kept her promise about the parking meter—and put in a "no parking" zone instead. Hehe heh heh. How she did enjoy watching him slip and slide on the ice, and sully his impeccable pants cuffs in the slush and the mud, as he clomped from the alley, where he now had to park his boat of a car, to the back door of his shop.
Her little mechanical clock is all the sweeter for these reminders of its origin.
Two o'clock then. She swings around in her leather roller chair, away from her black-and-white marble table, her heels clacking against her black-and-white marble-and-granite floor (she loves how clean and cool and solid her decor feels) and rises gracefully (a royal is always graceful, even when alone, her mother had taught her). She walks, every move slow and deliberate, to the windows behind her desk, withdraws the chintz curtains and looks out upon her kingdom (or mayordom, as the case may be). Yes. Down below and across the street, in Mills Park, right on time, a harpist begins to play the elegant strains of The Wedding March, while on the gazebo, a priest and two men in tuxes wait, a little embarrassed, their hands folded, while a white horse-drawn carriage pulls up to the parking meter and a bride and her bridesmaid are handed out by her daddy. Regina casts a bemused gaze over the romantic scene. How lovely they all look, all the little props in the play that Her Majesty had designed for her own personal amusement: Mitchell "King of Tires" Midas, his daughter Kathryn, her best friend Mary Margaret "Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride" Blanchard, and the groom-in-waiting, David the Dog Catcher Nolan. Lovely. Regina will never tire of this amusing little play, scripted into her curse to run at two o'clock, every day. Over and over and. . . .
And if she ever does grow weary of watching Snow White dimwittedly traipse down the aisle to witness some other gal marry HER Prince Charming, Regina can simply shift her attention to the small party of guests, doing their best to appear comfortable on shaky wooden folding chairs. For among the guests on the groom's side there are seven half-drunk dwarfs, while among the guests on the bride's side are a librarian who'd gone to college with the bride (or so she kinda sorta remembers having done) and the richest, crankiest creep in town, Mr. Gold (who, if asked, would be hard pressed to say why he's attending this wedding, since he wasn't invited).
The harpist (a former harpy from the Enchanted Forest) plays, the bridal party marches, the vows are spoken, the bride and groom swap spit as the bridesmaid goes green with jealousy, though she has no idea why, and Regina snickers from her window at the "I now pronounce you's." Then everyone retires to a tent, where the Blue Nun Band plays and luncheon is served, and Mr. and Mrs. Spit Swapper paw at each other on the dance floor while Ms. Bridesmaid eats her heart out without knowing why.
And at a corner table—oh this is delicious! So brilliant Regina was when she wrote this into the curse, though she was drunk at the time! At the corner table, pressed in together awkwardly, Mr. Gold and Ms. French squirm as they try to avoid bumping knees against each other, for Ms. French hates/abhors/despises the money grubber who this morning repo'ed her daddy's van ("heartless son of a sock swiper," she was heard to say at the time).
For his part, Mr. Gold sneers/smirks/turns up his pointy nose at the library leech, who lives off taxpayer dollars, just sitting on her squeezable little bum all day reading Fodor's.
So throughout the afternoon, while the bride and groom slobber, the guests stew, until it's at last four o'clock and they can resume their normal activities (except for the newlyweds, who climb into Nolan's F150 and drive down to Granny's B & B for more snogging).
And Regina laughs her head off.
2:00 again, the woodcutter strikes the tree, the harpist plays in the park, snogging, dancing, and everyone's miserable again except the oblivious Nolan and Regina, who's laughing her head off, just not quite as loud, because it's slightly less funny the second time around. . . the third time. . . the fourth. . . .
2:00 again.
2:00 again.
2:00—except, wait. Ms. French and Mr. Gold are looking at each other. They start talking. Who knows what about, it doesn't matter, they're not supposed to talk, and they're certainly not supposed to smile.
2:00, 2:00. . . Oh my gods, their knees are pressing together and nobody's jerking away. They're smiling.
2:00, 2:00. . . Oh gods, Ms. French has picked up her napkin and she's—good lord, she's dabbing at Gold's cheek with it, removing a smudge of frosting, and he's LAUGHING. And he reaches over to brush a lock of her hair back from her eyes.
2:00, 2:00. . . He stands and holds out his hand and she accepts and they're dancing! How in the name of Medusa did this happen? It's not in the script, not the dancing, the laughing, the touching, oh my gods he's doing his knuckles brushing against the cheek thing, the leaning in—NO! Before those lips touch, Regina flings her window open, leans out and yells, "Stop that, you idiots!" It works: they hear her, look up, confused, the wedding breaks up.
2:00, 2:00. . . "Stop that, you idiots!" How much more must she take? Oh gods, why did she have that second bottle of wine while she writing the curse?
2:00, 2:00. . . And a yellow Beetle pulls up behind the white carriage, spooking the horse. A blonde in a white t-shirt and jeans climbs out of the car, folds her arms, watching the wedding, and when the dancing starts, the groom notices her from across the park, waves an invitation to her to join in, and she threads her way through the crowd toward the punch bowl, and just as she steps forward, Belle steps backward and they collide. The blonde apologizes and Ms. French blushes, steps out of the way but in the process catches her heel in her partner's pants cuff and falls into him. Gold grabs her, breaking her fall, she leans into him, laughing up at him, him laughing down at her and good gods, they kiss and a blinding white light pulses from their lips (what a kiss!) and—
"Charming!"
"Snow!"
"Frederick?"
"Rumple!"
The mechanical woodcutter clangs four times. "Aw, shut up." Regina slaps him. Then she looks out the window: a hundred puzzled faces are staring back at her, until reckoning dawns: "REGINA!"
"Uh oh." Good thing her Mercedes is parked just outside the back door, in a No Parking zone.