The Board of Departures Fails

The green enamel cup rests on the bench. I notice the coat hanging on the hook; heavy wool, deep charcoal, cut for a man who does not stand here. The clock face reads a time that does not exist, seventeen minutes past three. A list of destinations runs down the wall: Boston, Cairo, a town called Oakhaven. I press my thumb against the glass display where the times should be. My throat tightens with the smell of damp concrete, the scent of someplace where I have only seen photographs. A ticket window opens. A woman waits. She asks for my name. I speak the syllables. They break upon the air, dissolving into fine silver dust before they complete the sound. She does not look surprised. She merely adjusts the weight of the coat on the hook, and the departure board ticks forward, displaying nothing but empty names.