The kettle takes four minutes from cold. I know it by the sound before the whistle, the low building note under the lid, the moment the water changes its mind about staying quiet.
On the third screen a dinner scene was looping. A short episode, or a short clip of one, so the same supper kept coming around. The family sat at the long table. The maid brought the dish. A hard word got said down at the man’s end. The scene ran maybe ninety seconds and then it was back at the top, the family seated again, the dish coming in again, the same word waiting to be said.
So while my kettle climbed once toward the boil, their dinner happened two and a half times. The same evening, over and over, faster than my one evening could get itself a cup of tea. Their maid set the dish down three times. My water was not even singing yet.
Neither clock knew the other was there. That is the part I keep with me. Their evening cycled inside its ninety seconds, complete each time, nobody at the table aware they had already eaten this supper and would eat it again. My evening went the one slow direction it goes, toward the whistle, toward the cup, toward whatever the night was going to be short. Two clocks in one room and neither watching the other.
The kettle changed its note. I took it off before the whistle got going, the way I do, so the sound never fully breaks.
On the screen the dish came in a fourth time. The tea went dark in the cup. I let it go too long, the way I do, and by the time I lifted the bag the water had gone bitter, and I drank it bitter, standing up, while down the table a word I had already heard three times got said again.