Breathless. I am breathless from running. Unfortunately, not from a morning jog this time. Or being chased by police. No excuses. I look at my watch.

Shit.

I am late, again. Anyone who knows me is perfectly aware that I need not really declare my lateness; it's such a permanent state of being for me that it requires no ostentations declaration. It is obvious in my appearance, my clumsiness, the way I dress, the way I walk (or, more accurately, the way I hurtle down the road as if chased by the beasts of hell) und so weiter. I am, so the saying goes, a walking disaster. The later I am, the faster I go, and so the more mistakes I makes, thereby resulting in me ending up later still. I may be appearing to be a man of clich├ęs, but it is a vicious circle.

I tell people I am late on principle, my principal being that punctuality is the thief of time. Luckily, most people are not overly familiar with Oscar Wilde and so do not recognise that in this case I am, in fact, the thief. I would like to believe this, but the truth is that I am just not organised enough. I have no excuses anymore.

I wear my tardiness like a cloak that I cannot remove. It is my one piece of clothing I can take with me when I time travel; even then I cannot shake it off. It trips me up when I walk, stumbling and delaying me; it snags on the seventeen thousand locks as I enter my apartment; it covers my alarm clock, drowning out the noise that is supposed to get me up on time for that day. It is unavoidable. It forces me take the blame for every blunder and faux pas, and damns the consequences.

I've been daydreaming, and now I'm later still.

As I say, it's unavoidable.

A/N: I actually wrote the first paragraph of this about myself, and then realised it worked quite well as Henry. I am so late all the time it's just not funny. Please R&R.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Time Traveler's Wife. (I wish.)