Everyone was content. But what was happening with their clocks? Did the women believe the canard about clocks shrinking in the spine or shoulder and then expanding in stomachs later? Or how about the one that says, if you have enough clocks vibrating at the same frequency, your bones stay elastic? In the beginning, women believed their pendulums would swing forever. But then, they heard their grandmothers’ and mothers’ gears seize one by one. Still, they remained filled with hope. They pushed their clocks away. The clocks held their regrets. The women stood behind muted, cream-colored doors. Now they burned sandalwood and magnolia incense after the collapse of others. Suspended between each sunrise and sunset, they found a sense of meaning. They sought refuge in the silent, moss-covered mountains. They sipped dirty martinis, tattooed their skin, and painted their lips red. Here, clocks lost their man-made electric charge. Eventually, memories began to fade. Clocks melted.