I am alone in a hot city. My favourite bar is closed for siesta, and I am aimlessly walking the dusty streets. Outside a shabby tailors', I am accosted by a man in a dark suit. He acts in a conspiratorial manner, and invites me to follow him along the street. After some time, we arrive at a small bar on the edge of the city. We take a seat each, and the man whispers to me that he is suffering from an unusual complaint, in that he is consistently late for everything. He explain that this is because somebody has stolen his today, forcing him to take up residence in tomorrow. As a consequence, every engagement he makes can never be honoured. He is always late, and wakes up in the morning with a terrible sense of guilt and failure. When he saw me outside the tailors, he recognised a kindred spirit, he tells me. I tell him that he is quite mistaken: I may be reknowned for my lateness, but I have been on time on occasion, and no-one has stolen my today. This visibly disappoints the man in the dark suit, and he makes his apologies and shuffles off, out of the bar. I am left feeling a little guilty, but I reassure myself that there is nothing to feel bad about.
That night, I am seized with the idea that someone has stolen my today. I find, the next day, that I have missed all my appointments by twenty-four hours.
At siesta, I see a man in a dark suit greeting an acquaintance with a firm handshake and a smile. I overhear the words, "Glad you could make it."