The Weight of Empty Departure

The departures board flashes Miami, Boston, Chicago, all marked next Friday. I trace the names with my thumb. Over the luggage cart, the fluorescent ceiling presses down, holding a small cloud of slate grey. It does not rain. My fingers rest on the elbow of the coat; it is wool, a deep navy, sized for a man I have not met. I study the brass buttons. Nearby, on a bench, sits a ceramic bell, milky white, etched with numbers I cannot read. I lift the bell; it has a weight that suggests salt water. I turn the bell over in my palm. The faint scent of iodine rises from the clay. The air is cool, smelling of stale coffee and ozone. I press my thumb to the cool curve of the bell. The coat feels necessary.