The Name That Unravels

The counter holds the faint stain of turmeric, a kitchen I cooked in ten years ago. The linoleum underfoot is damp, releasing the smell of wet cement. I touch the sleeve of the coat draped over the chair; the wool is heavy, meant for someone I do not know, a structure that fits perfectly. A dog walks the length of the refrigerator, its weight seeming too much for its small frame. I tilt my head, trying to recall why I came to this room, a blank space where a thought rests. On the wall, a small brass plaque lists names where the month should be. My tongue shapes the name, a quick, low sound, and the syllables dissolve before they reach the air, scattering like sugar dust on the damp wood. The green enamel cup cools fast in my hand.