The Watch That Has to Go

She gave it to me in Saint-Tropez. Summer of 2013. The Omega Seamaster Aqua Terra, 38.5mm, stainless steel. We were at Club 55, she was wearing white, the Mistral had died down, and for approximately forty-seven minutes I believed I understood what happiness was.

The watch was perfect. Not too large — 38.5mm is the size a confident man wears. Not too flashy — the Aqua Terra is the Seamaster for people who actually sail, not for people who wear boat shoes in Shoreditch.

She had a small card tucked inside the box. Handwritten. Navy ink on cream paper. I will not tell you what it said. Some things remain private, even in a magazine.

Then she left. Not dramatically, not with slamming doors and flying crockery. Worse than that. Quietly. With my business partner. On a Tuesday. They moved to Zurich. He sells insurance now. She deserves him.

For over a decade the Omega sat in my drawer. I could not wear it. I could not sell it. It sat there like a beautifully engineered reminder that I am, on occasion, a spectacular idiot.

I tried wearing it once, in 2016, to a dinner in Porto. I lasted eleven minutes. Took it off between the second course and the cheese. The woman sitting opposite me asked if I was alright. I told her the clasp was loose. The clasp was not loose.

But here is the thing about heartbreak that nobody tells you: it has an expiry date. Mine arrived in the shape of a woman who is equal parts Charlize Theron and Princess Diana — which is to say, capable of stopping traffic while making you feel she would rather be reading a book. She does not care about the watch. She cares about the man who survived wearing it.

So the Omega has to go. Not because I am bitter. Not because I am dramatic. But because a gentleman does not wear another woman's memory on his wrist when he has finally found the right one.

It is in excellent condition. The movement still keeps time as precisely as it did that evening at Club 55. The bracelet has the kind of hairline marks that only come from actually living with a watch, not keeping it in a safe. It has been to Sardinia, to the Aegean, to a very ill-advised weekend in Mykonos that we shall never discuss.

Whoever buys it should know: this watch has been loved. Properly. Inconveniently. The way only a watch given by the wrong woman at exactly the right moment can be.