The Tram's Slow Passing

The tram moves, its green enamel frame grating rhythm across the cobblestones of the city I know. It smells of damp wool and ozone. I stand by the window, watching the buildings pass—brown brick, second floor windows with opaque glass. A single thread, crimson, pulls taut from the bottom corner of the room, leading out through the sash and disappearing into the yellow morning. Across the square, a woman with salt-and-pepper hair stops. She looks at me, her head tilting exactly seven degrees. I wait for her recognition. I open my mouth, the name forming, but the sound comes out flat, wavering. She smiles, a slight curve of the lips, and repeats the sound. The name dissolves into the air, a thin mist that hangs, unattached, over the street. The tram brakes. The stranger shifts her weight, her worn leather coat brushing the sleeve of my coat.