A shop full of slightly different times

An original literary non-fiction-style account of waiting while a watch strap is adjusted in a clock shop.

The first tick I noticed came from the wall beside my chair. Once I had heard it, I could hear another answering from the shelf. They did not agree closely enough to become one sound. Between them, a small clock clicked with the determined impatience of a person clearing their throat. I moved my wrist away from my ear. My own watch contributed nothing I could hear.

The shopkeeper took the strap through a door at the back. Left alone, I studied the faces. Some had broad black hands; others pointed with delicate needles. One clock wore its numbers on tiny separate plaques, each carefully attached around a circle. All of them offered the same ordinary information with an extraordinary variety of gestures.

A minute approached in pieces. On the nearest face, a hand crossed the mark before the clock above the door had reached it. Somewhere behind the counter, a bell made one soft note and stopped. I waited for the other clocks to answer, but they continued their separate small negotiations. The room was full of certainty about time and disagreement about the exact moment.

When the shopkeeper returned, I asked which clock she used to set the others. She pointed to a plain clock half hidden by a cardboard box. Its face was smaller than most, and I had not noticed its tick at all. She put my watch beside it while fastening the strap. For a moment, the two faces rested together among all the competing movements. Then she handed mine back, and its quiet minute belonged to my wrist again.

How does the writer use language to make an ordinary wait in the clock shop seem unusual?