The Lobby of Unfinished Years

The lobby floor is polished travertine, stained green in places. I press the tooth into the palm of my hand; it is wet and cool. The weight of the bone feels disproportionate, too heavy for a single molar. Across the way, a massive window displays the leaves of late autumn, deep russet and gold, though the light filtering through the glass is the bright, unrelenting white of high summer. I trace the pattern of dust on the brass railing. Something remains in the room beyond the marble arch, a specific object I need. The air smells of old carpet fiber and burnt citrus. A man in a charcoal suit stands near the reception desk, his back turned, facing the wrong direction. I take one step toward the arch, leaving the cool weight of the tooth with my thumb.