3:47, still 3:47, the weight of the minute hand apparently preventing the clock's advance --3:47 since the smooth-jazz rendition of "Light My Fire" started its interminable drag, since the stream-of-consciousness discourse on this evening's dinner began spilling over the cubicle wall, since the account manager's cackle began its long reverberation though the warehouse-turned-office, echoes mixed with new bursts in a dense clutter of brittle guffaws. Staring at the clock, counting one, two, three, and so on, passing sixty, sixty five, 3:47, brow furrowed as the brain labors to push time forward, a nudge, a brush, and at last---3:48.

3:48.

Still 3:48.