The Window Shows Autumn

The humming of the dryers fills the space. A deep yellow enamel cup sits on the folding metal table. Across the wet linoleum, a letter rests, addressed to me in the cursive of my mother’s hand. The paper feels crisp, the ink a bruised indigo. I know the time; the exit sign glows a steady, reassuring green. I stand near the large bay window. Outside, the street is empty, but the window panel shows the vivid crimson of late autumn. Inside, the air smells of hot bleach and dry detergent, and the neon light flickers a steady rhythm against the glass. A pair of boots, mud stained, sit near the change machine. The glass pane is cool against my skin.