The Lobby of Wrong Arrivals

The lobby is marble, with a faint scent of lemon oil and cold metal. I stand near the information desk, looking at the polished floor. A single potted palm sits beside a bench that is empty. My palm holds a small, pale tooth. It rests against my index finger. I feel the weight of another hand resting on mine. It is a solid weight, and the fingers are tipped with clean, yellow nails. The hand stays there, a presence on my wrist. Across the room, a revolving door spins, making the quiet sound of wet stone. I do not need to move. I know I will not be late for anything.