"Pockets full of magic, fists full of time."

He's been here for awhile. A year. Maybe two. Every now and then I'd glimpse him in the corner, playing with a pocket watch like kids used to play with yo-yos. It glitters in the light.

Now and then I'd sketch him. Fast, usually, because he always looked like he was about to go somewhere. I shouldn't have worried. He has all the time in the world.

His name, he says, when he finally saunters into the light, is Nick. Robin mentioned that I was looking for male fantasy figures to pose for a calendar. Did he qualify? In the corner, Robin laughs. He's very, very busy checking out the Macy's online catalog. He thinks the zoom resolution on the women's lingerie is fascinating.

I assure Nick, several times, yes. I don't *only* draw men with pointy ears; and sorcerers (or whatever it is he does with all that magic and all those watches) qualify as fantasy as well. What took him so long to come forward?

He only smiles, and pulls out a pocket watch. It's beautiful, but even as I'm running a finger around the rim the face is changing. Small whorls of gold and and silver are entwining, making ever more complicated patterns, ever more beautiful shapes. He says, in a voice that is the low sexy rumble of mountains eroding, that he was waiting for me to be ready.

He was waiting for it to be time.