The Gate with No Number

The beige wall of the gate is cold under my hand. I hold the weight of a charcoal coat; the shoulders fit someone who is not here. My fingers trace the frayed cuff, knowing the collar belongs to someone I meet after this hour. Overhead, the ceiling holds a small bank of cumulonimbus, the rain falling up into the station lights. The ache sits just below my ribs, a pressure that belongs to your sister, a rhythm I do not produce. A woman across the concourse wears a green enamel cup, balancing it on a wrist that is too slender to support it. The air smells of jet fuel and wet cedar. My shoe leather presses against the tile, and I wait for the name board to click into place, realizing the board is listing temperatures instead of flight times.