The Floor Recalls Salt

A green enamel cup sits on the marble counter. It holds water; the surface level does not drop even when I tilt it. The lobby is vast, smelling of wet concrete and old brass. I trace the outline of the woman's initials carved into the baseboard, letters belonging to someone who does not exist here. My fingers rest on a heavy, varnished oak chair, feeling a deep pull toward its unadorned wood grain. The floor tiles near the reception desk are slick. They feel cool under my shoe sole, the wetness of salt clinging to them, remembering the ocean's weight. A boy stands across the room, holding a yellow rubber ball. Its weight is wrong, too light for the size of his hands. The water in the cup remains full, a perfect sheet across the surface.