Before the words have even left your mouth, the light of the screen becomes a blinding flash. The world is blotted out by the wave of white. A great leap in your gut tells you that you are falling. You instinctively flail your arms, only... they're not there. You are formless, massless, a spirit being sucked through a great phosphorescent void.

A moment later, your body begins to return to you. Your arms and legs have been pressed into one, and meet each other around from around the width of something warm. Your face feels as though it is pressed into your chest, except stuck looking upward. The light begins to fade, and as it does, you can hear sounds eking their way to you. Car horns, footsteps near and far, idling and revving engines-- the sounds of a city street. Finally you can see, but a layer of fabric covers your face, obscuring your view of the world beyond. You can feel jolts reverberating through you, each one striking along with the clack! of the nearest set of footsteps.

It isn't possible. This has to be a trick, but your senses are telling you otherwise. You try to move your limbs, but nothing responds. You can only ride along, listening to the squeak of a door opening and closing, and then to the ding! of an elevator.

"Excuse me," you hear a male voice say. "My phone's dead. You wouldn't happen to have the time, would you?"
"Sure," a woman's voice, much closer to you, responds. The cloth on your face is ripped away, and now you see whose watch you've become. Two curls of ebony hair hang over each ear. The rest is pulled into a bird's nest of a bun secured by a single needle. She at first appears to be in her late twenties, but a smattering of creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth-- unnoticeable if you weren't so close-- display the truth. Still, she is strikingly beautiful... except for her eyes. Their gaze pierces you like a thunderbolt, both of them as ferocious and gray as a tempest. You feel as though she is about to ridicule you, to tear into you for daring to turn into her wristwatch. But, she merely answers the question: "Twelve-twenty-six." Warm breath washes over you, slapping you with the scent of garlic-and-mint. Her hand returns to her purse strap, and again the sleeve of her white business shirt covers you.
It had only taken three minutes for you to transform from a person into a watch.

The elevator stops. You hear the doors open, and again she's walking. The arm you're on extends, dropping her purse to the floor. A chair creaks, and then slides forward. Her sleeve is pulled back so you can again see, but the world is a blur as her left hand-- the one you're on-- is used to pull back her right sleeve. A sudden jolt flings you against her wrist, and then you feel plastic on the bottom of your limbs-- your strap. Vibrations ring through you as the sound of an enormous keyboard emanates from right next to you. Her muscles twitch as she works the buttons, and you feel every single movement.

She's wearing glasses now; thin, stylish golden frames shaped as semi-circles that multiply her fierce gaze. Fortunately for you, her eyes are focused on the computer monitor. But, in the reflection of the glasses, you catch sight of your current form. Your strap is a minimalistic strand of black leather. Your body is rectangular and gold... and so, so very small. It's a wonder she could read you at all; you're more of a bracelet than a watch. Even so, you do actually tell the time. You can't feel your hands moving, but you can see them in the reflection. And you can hear them: tick-tick-tick-tick. Constant ticking, ever since you first entered this form... as endless as the typing beneath you.

For hours she sits at her desk, doing whatever work she does, and all the while you sit upon her wrist. Occasionally you see one of her coworkers pass by, but the only words between them are short, polite greetings. She never even glances at you; why would she need an analog watch when the time is displayed to her constantly on a digital screen? Her right hand sometimes reaches for a cup or her phone, but yours is nearly always stationary upon her keyboard.

Eventually, the woman shuts off her computer and stands. Your world is active once again as she collects up her purse. Then, her sleeve covers you, and you hear her leaving through the same elevator she entered by. You regain your sight when she enters her car and pulls back her sleeve to grip the wheel, but you can only stare back at her for the entire silent trip.

When she arrives home, she immediately discards her bag and coat. You feel her fingers fiddling with your clasp, and then you're suddenly free. You roughly clatter against a glass vanity top, but you land with your face looking out. It is here that you're struck by just how small you are to this woman; her body rises up like a skyscraper, but you're only level with her waist. You watch as she frees her hair from the bun, letting it fall where it may around her shoulders. Her fingers work the buttons of her blouse, and a wave of perfume wafts over you as her bare skin is revealed. Her shirt falls away, and then her simple white bra, freeing a set of mouthwatering breasts to fall to their natural positions. They hang over you such that you can no longer see her face. Then, suddenly, her chest drops. You prepare yourself for one of the heavy globes to crash on top of you, but they swing clear. As she pulls off her black skirt, you are face to face with... a tattoo. There, right at the cusp of her left breast, as though growing from her cleavage, is a rose; and judging from its vibrancy, it's relatively new. But, as quickly as it appeared, it again disappears as she stands to her full height. She dons a plush red bathrobe; now, in this relaxed state, she is far less intimidating than before. Still just as beautiful, but in an approachable, cute way. It's as though she'd had a transformation herself. With a fluttering heart, you watch her hips sway as she leaves the room.

For another hour or so, you can only listen as she enjoys her evening. First, dinner, then some TV, and finally you hear her filling a bathtub. Just as you hear her enter the water, there is a beeping within your head. A few seconds later, your vision goes white. The next thing you know, you're standing in her bedroom, staring at the watch you had existed as until only a moment ago.

While the sounds of her bathing echo from the bathroom, you tiptoe out of her house and close the door as quietly as you can, pausing only to glimpse her name from some mail left on a table: Tara Beaufoy.

Fortunately, you're still wearing clothes. After getting your bearings, you're able to make your way home. The miracle device is still sitting where you left it... ready to be used again at your leisure.
Possibilities flood your mind.
And it's only 9PM.