The Fluorescent Hum of 4 AM

The yellow rotary telephone hangs off the hook. I listen to the ringing silence, the empty weight of the coiled cord. The laundrette smells of industrial detergent and hot metal. I stand across the room from the row of folding drying racks. They are empty now, yet the mirror mounted above the change machine holds a view of the room that exists exactly sixty seconds before I looked at it. The mirror shows the bench seat occupied by a single coat. I feel the weight of a grief that has no beginning and no end, only the persistent ache of it. I lift my hand toward the glass, and the mirror reflects my hand reaching for nothing.