Need A Hand
The ticking of the clock was clear and distinct in the café, like the torturous dripping of a tap. The sound of rattling dishes being clumsily loaded into the dishwasher was but a murmur on the wind compared to the brutal tick that indicated each passing second. Cal’s heart beat to the rhythm, only twice as fast, with his eyes fixed firmly on the door. The coffee before him grew cold as he continually stirred it with a slow, unfaltering pace. She was late. Not very late, but late. Every passing...