Demetrio

Demetrio's eyelids droop, but it isn't sleep: it's that he lives at another speed. He's the keeper of the five minutes, the ones that appear out of nowhere when someone can't take any more. When he sees a person running the whole day through, their head racing ahead of their body, he drives his staff into the ground and the amethyst does its quiet work: the bus runs late just so, the visitor calls to say they won't make it, the rain waits until you're inside. No one notices a thing. A little gap just appears in the day, a moment that wasn't there, and the person breathes deep without knowing whom to thank. Demetrio watches from afar, adjusting his furry vest, and goes on with his slow rounds. Time doesn't stretch for just anyone: someone has to ask it nicely.