Vulgar punctuality

I keep my eye on that clock. It's of the digital variety. I study the brazen red digits. When I look away they are embossed onto my retinas. The reflection of the wiry, flickering lines probably blend in with my tired bloodshot eyes. It seems like ten minutes have passed and it hasn't moved a slender muscle. I'm not sure I trust it. I want to prove it wrong, catch it out, show it up. I challenge myself to a game, see how long I can go without locking eyes with my crude antagonist. My mind starts to wander, throws a stick for its dog, picks a few leaves from a nearby hedge, then returns home, wiping its feet at the door. I trace the title of my book with my finger. I'm incapable of opening it. The clock is flaunting itself at me. It's mocking me. I sneak a peak out of the corner of my eye. It sees me. I quickly look away but I know I am defeated. I suffer the shame of daring to look once more. At that moment it flicks from 7:59 to 8:00 and the engine jumps into action. I watch the ripples in my coffee. The curb disappear from view. At least now I can start my book, safe in the knowledge that another German vehicle of public transport has left promptly.