Departures on the Cold Platform

The departure board lists times for trains that do not move. A woman in a charcoal coat stands near the yellow tile pillar. Her eyes catch mine, a flicker of acknowledgment across the distance. I taste the metallic smell of wet concrete and old cigarettes. My hand holds a green enamel cup filled with water; the level remains constant, a perfect, unwavering meniscus. Above the platform, the ceiling holds a small, silent curtain of rain, falling without a sound. It wets the air into a cool film, leaving the air heavy and clean. The stranger laughs, a sound that hangs in the half-light, and she mouths a name, a single word that feels close, yet entirely foreign. I turn toward the sound, the cup slipping slightly in my palm, the water resisting the fall, remaining full.