The Boarding Pass For Nobody

The granite floor breathes a steady warmth around my shoes. It is the smell of ozone and wet wool in the station where no tracks run. I carry a coat, navy blue wool, size forty, draped over my arm. It belongs to a person whose face I do not know. The departures board lists times for cities with names I cannot pronounce. A woman moves past me, her weight listing slightly to the right, and suddenly she shifts, her shoulders narrowing and her knees becoming that of a girl who wears patent leather shoes. I continue walking toward the platform edge. The air holds the faint scent of burnt sugar and vacuum cleaner dust. Next to the ticketing kiosk, a man stands waiting. He looks at me, then blinks, and his fingers elongate, hardening into the small, blunt hands of a boy who still has a tooth in his gum. The light shifts from half-noon to late afternoon, making the green enamel cup on the nearby bench glow. I know the time is irrelevant.