The Staircase Moves Twice

The coastal road is grey, wet with salt mist. I stand near a vending machine selling postcards I cannot read. My wristwatch ticks, a sound that vibrates in my jaw. The minute hand spins, but there are no hour markers. It points nowhere definite. The staircase across the street moves. It goes down and up at the same moment, a visible shimmer of motion. I watch the rhythm, the way the treads overlap and divide. A small, tarnished brass compass sits on the curb. I pick it up. I trace the inner etching with my thumb. I feel a pull toward the metal, a specific kind of recognition for something I do not own. The air smells of cold ozone and wet seaweed.