The Weight of Forgotten Water

I stand in the laundromat, the fluorescent lights buzzing a high, single note. It is four a.m. The yellow rotary telephone hangs off the hook, its plastic casing warm to the touch. The linoleum floor under my boots feels uneven; it is always damp, even when the machines are off, remembering the volume of water it once held. I hear a sound, a distant running faucet, but I know the water is contained inside my ribs, a hollow ache that belongs to a person who never stood here. My fingers trace the edge of a green enamel cup set on a folding table. I press my palm flat against the back wall; the cool metal has the distinct weight of a person standing exactly where I am standing now. A single drop of condensation slides down the side of the vending machine.