The Station Ceiling Breaks

The chipped porcelain tile falls wet. It is heavy, the weight of a single, perfect robin’s egg. I hold the tooth flat in my palm; it feels smooth, bone white. The departures board lists a time for 3:17, but the names below it are only initials—J.T., A.R., E.D. I trace the outline of the enamel on the tooth with a thumb nail. Above the ticket counter, the ceiling gives way. A small, wet weather descends, smelling of ozone and brine. The air changes pressure, making my ears ring, a low ringing note. I look at the empty tracks, the yellow warning strip peeling up at the edge. The weightlessness of not having a name today settles deep in the chest cavity. A uniformed man stands near the ticket booth, his shoulders carrying too much weight for his frame.