I’ve never liked Daylight Saving Time. “Hate” might be too strong a word, at least according to my husband Dale, but it’s close.

Yesterday I started thinking about the time change and remembered a short story I wrote years ago that’s been sitting in my email drafts. I could never decide how to end it. When I read it again, I realized it didn’t need the grand ending I used to think it did. It just needed the one that felt true now.

Maybe it will be published someday, but for now, here it is. Enjoy.

---

When the Clock is Right

Jeff’s 2011 Honda Civic hated cold mornings.
It coughed like a smoker, stuttered once, then grudgingly caught. He thumped the dash twice out of habit. “Don’t start with me today, Civvy.”

The heater exhaled a weak breath that smelled faintly of burnt dust and damp leaves. Jeff sat there a second, watching his breath fog the windshield, thumb hovering over the clock buttons. 8:43, the dash said.

Then he blinked. Wait.
It was 8:43.

Jeff grinned. “Well, look at that.” The clock was right. Daylight Saving Time had finally dragged the world back into line with his car. For the first time since spring, his life matched his dashboard.

No matter how many times he’d tried to fix the clock, it wouldn’t budge. He’d bought the Civic used. The dash clock was wrong then, and it stayed that way, except for the four magical months of winter.

Outside, the apartment lot was slick with frost, sun catching on the windshields of tired cars. Somewhere, a leaf blower whined. A ribbon of frost peeled from the wiper. He should’ve been at the rec center by 8:30 for pickup basketball. The guys were already texting “you dead?” but Civvy wouldn’t move yet. She wasn’t quite ready. The smell of old sweatshirts and cold air filled the car. He let her idle, basking in the small, ridiculous joy of her clock being right for the first time since spring without him doing a damn thing.

Maybe this was a sign. Maybe this was the turn. Maybe his luck was changing.

The radio snapped on by itself, as it sometimes did, cutting into a pop song halfway through the chorus. Static swallowed the words. The radio knobs stopped turning years ago, so he could only listen to one station, and only when Civvy decided. Didn’t matter. For four months every year, the universe agreed with him.

He threw the car into gear, patted the steering wheel like it was an old friend, and said, “Alright, Civvy. Let’s see what you’ve got for us today.”
The Civic groaned, lurched forward, and merged with the bright, forgiving morning.

***

A few days later, Jeff pulled into the company lot ten minutes before nine, miracle enough. Civvy wheezed once but didn’t stall, which was progress. The crack in her dashboard caught the morning light like a scar. He killed the engine and sat there, watching coworkers hurry past with travel mugs and stress already on their faces.

The dashboard clock still read 8:50. Still right.
He couldn’t remember much about last winter, the last time his life matched anything digital, except that he met Emily. He flashed to her dumping him last summer, saying she needed a man with a better future, not a guy in a dead-end job, a tiny studio apartment, and a beat-up car he bought used in college, still smelling faintly of other people’s lives.

He was halfway through a protein bar when the thud came, coffee splattering across the windshield in a perfect, abstract bloom.

“Are you kidding me?” he muttered, grabbing for napkins that didn’t exist.

Then a knock at the window.
Lena. His crush from Accounting. Usually earbuds in, always polite in that distant way people are with someone they barely know.

She mouthed, I’m so sorry! holding up the empty cup like evidence. He rolled the window down.

“My lid just… I don’t know what happened,” she said, laughing nervously. “Gust of wind, I guess.”

He looked at the mess, then back at her. “Hey, I’ve done worse. At least you didn’t dent the car. Civvy’s sensitive.”

“You named it?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Her,” he said, deadpan. “We’ve been through some stuff.”

Lena smiled, a real one, not the polite kind. “I like that. Most people trade up before they get sentimental.”

“Can’t afford to trade up,” he said. “But she gets me where I need to go. Eventually.”

The radio and the heater both clicked on at once, whirring loudly. The smell of cinnamon from her spilled coffee mixed with the Civic’s stale air.

She chuckled, wiping her hand on her sleeve. “Well, thanks for not yelling. I’ll buy you a coffee sometime to make up for it.”

And just like that, she was gone, heading toward the entrance, ponytail swinging.

He sat there, staring at the drying coffee on the windshield, pulse thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with caffeine.

The Civic purred softly, heater humming, clock still right.
Maybe this was how luck began, not with lightning, just a lid that didn’t fit.

Jeff smiled at the smear on the glass. Maybe this was the moment. Maybe he’d actually ask her, after work, to go get coffee.

***

By December, frost had started sticking to the inside of Civvy’s windshield. Jeff scraped it with an old Panera rewards card, the heater coughing in protest. It was a Tuesday. Cold, bright, one of those mornings where the air feels like glass.

He was sitting at a red light, halfway through a song he didn’t like, when the Civic’s Bluetooth chirped and lit up with an unknown number. Normally, he’d let it ring, but something made him answer.

“Jeff?” The voice crackled through the static. His boss. “Hey, listen, you got a minute?”

Jeff blinked. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

“I’ll keep it quick. We’re moving a few people around before the new year. You’ve been steady, reliable. We want to bump you up. Department Manager.”

Jeff laughed, not because it was funny, but because it didn’t sound real. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. Right place, right time. Right guy. Congrats.”

The call dropped right after that, but not before he heard his boss say, “Comes with a nice raise too. Merry Christmas.”

As usual, the radio didn’t come back on after Bluetooth cut out, so Jeff sat at the green light in silence, still stunned. Civvy idled like she was waiting for him to process it.

He looked at the clock. Still right. 8:42.
“Right place, right time, right guy,” he said to the empty car, testing the words.

A horn blared behind him. He waved, flustered, and eased forward, grinning like a fool.

By the time he pulled into the office lot, he was already imagining how to tell Lena. Maybe at lunch. Maybe he’d let her see the email announcement that would surely come, pretend to act surprised.

The Civic’s radio clicked on again without being touched, half static, half Taylor Swift. He laughed out loud. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Civvy gave a small shudder that could have been agreement.

He shut the door, still smiling, and for the first time in a long time, he walked into work on time, on purpose, feeling like maybe the universe wasn’t kidding around.

***

By January, Jeff had stopped questioning his luck.
Civvy was running smoother than she had in years, the heater only half-broken now, and the clock still holding strong.

He was crawling through morning traffic when the radio cut through the static with a jolt of sound.

“Alright, Denver, it’s your favorite morning crew on Hits 95.7! We’ve got two front-row tickets to see The Plain Jane’s live at The Paramount next May. Text the title of their breakout single, your name and your town to win.”

Jeff loved that band in college, half rock, half grunge, all heartbreak. “Runaway Summer,” that was the song. He said it out loud before realizing the phone was in his hand.

He texted. Then forgot about it.

Ten minutes later, the DJ’s voice came back, practically shouting over the static. Snow was falling now, tiny dots melting against the windshield.

“And our lucky listener is… Jeff K. from Wheat Ridge! Dude, you’re going to The Plain Jane’s!”

Jeff slammed his palm on the steering wheel so hard Civvy honked in protest. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

He looked at the clock. 2:14. Still right. Still perfect.
He laughed into the empty car. “We’re on a roll, girl.”

That night, he told Lena over burgers and fries at Sonic. She was sitting sideways in the passenger seat, feet tucked up, steam from the carton fogging the window.

“You actually won something on the radio? I can’t remember the last time I even listened to the radio before I met you and this car,” she joked.

“Front row,” he said, holding up the printed confirmation. “You, me, the Plain Jane’s. Paramount. May 5.”

Lena smiled, tracing the edge of the paper. “You really are having a moment, huh?”

He wanted to say yes. That maybe the universe had finally noticed him. But instead he shrugged, feeding her a fry with a grin.

Civvy hummed under them, the clock still glowing the right time, like a tiny sun on the dash.

***

Snow had started melting in gray lines along the curb. The world smelled faintly of wet asphalt and cheap perfume.

Jeff and Lena sat in Civvy, parked outside a restaurant that charged too much for anything with truffle oil. The night had gone perfectly. Reservation right on time. Candlelight flattering in ways fluorescent office bulbs never were. She’d laughed more than he’d ever heard her laugh.

Now they were in the car, heat turned low, condensation creeping along the windows.

“This Valentine’s Day was perfect,” she said.

He smiled. “For once, yeah. No traffic. No wrong turns. No burnt food.”

She tilted her head, teasing. “You saying your luck’s finally changed?”

“Maybe it never changed,” he said. “Maybe it just caught up.”

Lena laughed softly. “I like that.”

She reached over, turned the radio knob, which actually worked. He blinked, then smiled as it caught a soft pop song, one of those easy ones that sound like falling in love even when you’re not sure. The dashboard clock glowed steady. Still right. Still theirs.

Jeff leaned back, one hand on the steering wheel, one resting near hers. Civvy hummed like a contented cat.

“I was thinking,” he said, “when The Plain Jane’s show comes around… maybe we make a weekend of it. Get a fancy hotel room downtown. Make it a whole fun weekend.”

She smiled, half into the dark. “Look at you, Mr. Romantic.”

He laughed. “Guess that’s me.”

For a moment, everything inside that little Honda felt suspended, the world outside blurred and slow, the air warm, her laugh low and close.

If he’d known what was coming, he might have looked harder at that glowing clock, memorized the rightness of it. But he didn’t. He just leaned in and kissed her, the heater whispering, Civvy purring like the night itself approved.

***

March crept in like a trick clock.

Jeff noticed it on a Monday morning, half awake, fumbling for his keys. Civvy’s windshield was fogged again, the air sharp enough to taste. He started the car, and the clock blinked to life.

9:13.

Too early. Too wrong.

He sat there a moment, staring at it. The world had sprung forward overnight. Daylight Saving Time again.

“Not yet,” he muttered. “Don’t do this yet. I liked you being right.”

But there it was. The extra hour, gone. The glow on the dash mocking him.

He sat there until the windshield cleared, the wipers squeaking like an apology.

He drove to work anyway, pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending the air didn’t feel heavier.

By noon, his phone was lighting up with bank alerts. Fraud, charges he didn’t recognize, a frozen account. He laughed out loud when the fourth text came through. “Of course.”

At lunch, he called Lena at her desk. He thought maybe she’d cheer him up, but she was rushed, distracted, said she’d call back later.

That evening after work, he sat in the car again, engine idling, watching the wrong time blink. It felt like waiting for something to fix itself.

“Come on, Civvy,” he said softly. “You had one job.”

The heater made a tired hiss. The clock didn’t care.

He tried to adjust it once, thumb on the tiny plastic button, but couldn’t get it to push in no matter how hard he pressed. The display flickered and stayed wrong.

He leaned back, eyes closed, a laugh stuck between bitter and scared.

Four months of rightness. Gone overnight.

Outside, the wind picked up. The streetlights came on. The dashboard glowed steady and false, like the world had shifted one inch out of place.

Civvy hummed low, as if she knew but couldn’t do anything about it.

***

April came with longer days and shorter patience. The air smelled like wet paper and exhaust.

Jeff sat in Civvy outside the office, hands on the wheel, engine off. He was early again, which felt like a bad omen now. The dashboard clock still mocked him, one hour behind. It glowed a calm, unbothered 7:38 while his phone said 8:38.

This past week Lena told him she had heard her boss whispering about restructuring. Corporate words that meant bloodletting.

When his boss called, it came through Civvy’s Bluetooth, thin and tinny, like a voice traveling from another dimension.

“Hey, Jeff, got a minute?”

He already knew.

It was short. Words like “realignment” and “management” floated through static. “We’re sorry, Jeff. It’s not performance. Just… us thinning out the management level to get leaner.”

He stared at the cracked phone mount on the dash while his job disappeared through the speakers. When the call ended, the radio startled him. It came back on immediately, a car insurance ad, too loud, too cheerful.

He shut it off and sat in the silence.

Civvy didn’t judge. The old heater wheezed once and went quiet, like she knew this part of the ride was his alone.

Across the lot, Lena’s blue Mini Cooper pulled in. She waved, not knowing yet. He waved back, forcing a smile he didn’t feel.

Then he looked at the clock again, that soft, wrong glow.

“Guess moving to management wasn’t all it was cracked up to be,” he said to no one, and laughed, a dry, thin sound that stuck in his throat.

The radio flickered once, static crackling through the silence, like the car wanted to say something but thought better of it.

***

By May, spring had gone soft and green, the kind of beautiful that just makes bad news hit harder.

Jeff was in Civvy when he found out. A text message from Hits 95.7, cheerful as ever:

CONTEST WINNER: The Plain Jane’s called it quits. Tour canceled. No free tickets. Keep listening to Denver’s #1 morning station for more contests to win!

He stared at the words until the screen dimmed. The printout with the tickets sat in the glove compartment to ensure he wouldn’t forget them the night of the show.

When Lena slid into the passenger seat that afternoon, she’d already seen it on social media.
“I guess that’s that,” she said.

He tried to make a joke. “At least we won’t have to fight for parking.”

She smiled faintly, then sighed. “Maybe it’s for the best. We can cancel the hotel. Save some money.”

He looked over, caught her hesitation. “You still don’t want to go? Just enjoy downtown for a few days?”

“Jeff, you’re not working right now,” she said gently. “We should be smart. It’s just… timing.”

There it was again. Timing.

He nodded, pretending agreement. “Sure. Makes sense.”

They sat in silence. The only sound was Civvy’s engine ticking as it cooled.

After a while, she reached out and turned off the radio. It kept playing a bubbly Selena Gomez song. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he lied. “Just feels like someone flipped a switch.”

He meant the band breaking up, the reissued credit card that took three tries and seventeen calls to actually show up in the mail, the job, the season, all of it.

She leaned over, kissed his cheek, and said, “It’ll even out. It always does.”

But when she got out of the car, she didn’t look back, and Civvy’s clock glowed its same wrong hour, steady as ever.

Jeff sat there watching her walk to her townhouse, thinking that maybe it was time to finally fix it.

He pressed one of the buttons next to the clock. Hard. It went in. Success. The display blinked, wavered, and stayed wrong.

***

June came in hot and dull. The air hung heavy, like the whole city was tired of pretending things would get better.

Jeff hadn’t heard much from Lena in days. Conversations had thinned out to single-word texts. Hey. Busy. Sorry. He didn’t need translation.

He sat in Civvy outside her townhouse, engine off, window cracked. The band’s canceled tickets were still stuffed in the glove box, unopened envelope like a wound he didn’t bother to close.

When she came out, she looked lighter somehow. Or maybe he just looked heavier.

“Hey,” she said, leaning on the door.

“Hey.”

Neither of them moved. Civvy’s clock blinked its wrong time, uncaring.

She exhaled. “Jeff, I think I need some space. You’ve had a lot going on. I have too.”

He nodded slowly. “Sure. Yeah.”

“I didn’t plan it like this,” she said. “I just… don’t think we’re synced up right now.”

That word again. Synced.

He gave a weak smile. “Story of my life.”

For a second, she looked like she might cry, but she didn’t. She touched his arm, soft, almost apologetic. “You’ll be okay.”

Then she turned and walked away, a dog barking somewhere down the block, then nothing but the fan.

Jeff started the engine and just sat there. The air conditioning sputtered, the clock glowed one hour off, a small lie that had somehow become the truest thing in his life.

He leaned back, watching the world through the cracked windshield, and whispered, “Guess it’s just us again, Civvy.”

The car hummed, steady and indifferent, as if it had known all along that four months was as long as rightness ever lasts.

***

By July, the heat had found everything. The Civic smelled like sun-warmed plastic. The seats burned the backs of his legs. A wilted summer-breeze air freshener swung from the mirror, barely hanging on.

Jeff drove nowhere in particular, the windows down, the radio tuned to static. He’d stopped waiting for songs.

When the gas light came on, he pulled into the same old lot behind his apartment. Civvy idled rough, her engine sounding tired, like it wanted to rest.

He sat there, not ready to kill the ignition. The dashboard glowed a soft orange, familiar as breath. The clock read 6:42. His phone said 7:42.

One hour off. Just like him.

He laughed once, quietly. “Guess we’re still out of sync, huh?”

For a long time, he just watched it. That wrong number, steady and sure of itself, refusing to care what the rest of the world said.

He thought about fixing it again, pressing the button, holding it until the hours rolled forward, but the idea felt pointless. Time would just change again in November.

Instead, he reached up and tapped the dashboard like he used to. “You did your best, Civvy.”

The car hummed, low and even. Outside, the sun was dropping behind the buildings, turning the windows gold.

He finally turned off the engine. The light on the dash faded to black.

And for the first time in months, Jeff didn’t need the clock to tell him what time it was.

***

The next morning, Jeff decided to try one last time.

He sat in Civvy with the door open, air already warming, a coffee sweating in the cup holder. The wrong time blinked on the dash. One hour off. Always one hour off.

“I can’t live like this,” he said, half-laughing. “I’m fixing you.”

He pressed the button. Held it. The digits flickered, stuttered, then went dark.

The clock didn’t come back. The dashboard was just empty space now, faintly reflecting his face.

Jeff stared at it for a long moment, waiting for something, anything, to happen. Nothing did. The silence in the car felt clean.

He leaned back, exhaled once, slow. “Perfect. I guess that’s that.”

Civvy hummed beneath him, steady and unbothered.

He started the engine, rolled out of the lot, no clock to follow, no hour to lose.