The Weight of Other Hands

The gate stands, polished green enamel, with no number above the departure board. A grey coat hangs on the hook, wool and black, smelling of cedar and rain. I wait, standing near the yellow luggage carousel; the light here is constant, a flat, yellow wash. My palm feels the solid weight of a stranger’s hand, the bone structure and the warmth of someone else’s flesh. The air carries the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner running in a deserted concourse, a steady, rhythmic hum. I look at the coats hanging on the racks; they belong to people who are already here, or who are coming next. I trace the stitching on the grey coat, a specific diamond pattern near the lapel. I know this waiting is pleasant, a settled anticipation. The polished tile floor registers the weight of my shoe, a solid, comforting resistance.