The Mirror Shows What Was

The hallway floor feels warm where the nurse just stood. The tile is linoleum green, patterned with chipped yellow rectangles. I lean against the wall near the dental suite, a faint smell of iodine and old chalk dust reaching me. Above the reception desk, a yellow rotary telephone hangs off the hook, its brass cradle cool to the touch. I wipe a thumb across the polished mahogany of the counter. The mirror facing the corridor catches the room as it existed seconds before. It shows my coat sleeve resting on a chair that is currently empty. The mirror's reflection holds the weight of that past second, a moment I never lived through. I lift my hand to my collarbone. The skin temperature registers low, a cool metal against the soft wool of my jacket. A thin, steady dripping sound comes from the overhead pipes, marking time I cannot attach to anything.