That was the day it happened.
“Superpowers” they called it. Like everyone was suddenly flying or had x-ray vision. But it wasn’t like that: it was mostly small, strange things.
My buddy Mike gained an incredible sense of smell. Could tell you where you’d been days ago. But the power only worked one day a week. My old lady’s left arm became fireproof. Just the arm, just the left.
I was sitting waiting in Grand Central one day. She was late, as usual. I looked down at my watch, then up at the station clock: 11.24. I’d been there almost an hour. I stared down at my watch again, sighed. My eyes widened as I followed the hands of my watch slow down, then wind backwards, then stop at 11.05. I looked back up at the station clock: 11.24.
In the morning I tried again. My watch was on the breakfast counter. I concentrated on it, hard, and saw it slow. A fly took off from a dirty plate in the sink and flew across my face. As it crossed over my watch it slowed down, then stopped: it suspended in the air. I concentrated harder, and the hands started turning back. The fly moved backwards along its flight path. About ten centimetres out it suddenly burst from the bubble, sped up, shot away on another trajectory.
Before I knew it I’d jumped back to the day we all got our powers. Then three days before. Then a fortnight. Then a year. Then more. Then I knew I’d lost control of it.
And now I’m scratching this into a cave wall with an arrow head. And then I feel the familiar tingle, and I know I’m about to go again.