The Platform of Departures

A fine grit dust covers the green enamel bench. The station clock reads 11:17, a time that never moves. I stand near the departure board; the names listed for Dover and Boston shift slightly, dropping letters that evaporate into the damp air. I pull a photograph from my coat pocket. My face occupies the corner, a pale shape, indistinct, barely a wash of sepia. Beside me, a woman wears a black coat, the texture rough. A man approaches the speaker’s booth, calling out a name. The sound is clear, precise. The name hits the air, then unravels, scattering into dust motes that float down into the track gravel. I keep the photograph tucked inside my thumb and forefinger, feeling the small weight of the card. The air here smells of ozone and spent steam, completely still.