There were few traits Jeremy Clockson admired in humanity. Punctuality however, was an admirable trait of the highest caliber, one that the Lady LeJean had mastered down to a second.

Jeremy Clockson had never been in love.

He had never seen the point really; socialization just meant less time to spend with his clocks. And people were so unsynchronized. They treated time so carelessly while he treated it like the precious commodity it was. Why couldn't they see what he saw? How could he ever explain the musical tick-tocking of the second hand, the beautiful, methodical precision he constructed his clocks with? Who would ever understand?

And then Lady LeJean had waltzed into his shop and asked for a perfect clock. She knew about time and the tick of the universe. Truly, she must have understood how valuable time was; she must have never wasted a second of her life. Jeremy sighed deeply and wondered if this was what all the fuss was about.

He's more right than he knows.

Lady LeJean was confused.

As an Auditor, she had understood things. Everything had a place and what didn't have a place was removed. This was only logical. Imperfection was made perfect.

Humanity was imperfection made real. Humans had to breathe, to eat, to blink, to move, to sleep to survive. And, absurd as it was, they had to do other things. To draw, to sing, to laugh, to read, to play, to hope, to dream. To be irrational. And the crowner of them all, they had to love.

Lady LeJean hadn't even had a concept of love until the clockmaker smiled at her.

How could she justify it to the others? How do you rationalize the irrational, explain what you yourself do not understand? The tactility of granite versus silk, the taste of butter, the gnawing sensation of hunger, the chaotic tumble of human emotion that shifted from indifference to warmth over something as simple as a smile. A trivial twitch of muscle at the corners of the mouth.

She wanted more. More smiles, more conversations, more time. Time with him. Each moment was precious and unique and would never happen again. Ever. And she was running out of moments.

Once she would have defined a life as a collection of time accumulated in a body. Now she wonders if a collection of moments would be more accurate.

She's more right than she knows.

Disclaimer goes here.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go drown myself for being such a sap. - SilverInkblot