The Weight of Yellow Rotaries

The lobby tile is chipped Carrara marble; the green enamel cup rests on the mahogany table. A yellow rotary telephone, off the hook, rings a silence that has no time. Above, the ceiling holds a small weather—a patch of autumn sky that falls in slow, viscous drops. The weight is on my shoulders, a skin I shed today, leaving me nameless. My feet step onto the threshold, a space meant for passage but closed by a curtain of sheer silver mesh. I reach for the receiver, the number dial still cool. The droplets strike the polished floor, smelling of ozone and wet asphalt.