The Tram Passes Over Water

The tram moves slowly through the curved streets of the city, painted yellow and green. I press my hand against the glass; the glass is cool and has the weight of a curtain. Above, the ceiling holds a small, steady column of rain. I watch a film projector mounted to the wall; the lamp shines, but the spool is empty. The air smells of salt and wet stone. I feel a specific ache, a deep pull toward a coastline I have never walked. The tram slows to a stop, and the water beneath the tracks ripples, reflecting the passage of the yellow paint.