The Green Enamel Ghost

The fluorescent lights hum a high, thin sound over the folding tables. It is four o'clock. The air smells of ozone and detergent pods. I stand by the row of washers; they are all blinking red, dry. My hands cup a glass of water. I tilt it, and the surface does not drop; the level holds steady, defying the angle of my wrist. It has the weight of cold mercury. I look past the humming dryers and see a corner, a porch painted a specific shade of yellow I have never viewed. The longing for that place settles in my chest, a pressure against my ribs. Across the room, the mirror mounted above the change machine shows the empty area where I was standing five seconds ago. It shows my coat draped over a chair that is not there, and the floor tile a pale green the laundromat does not possess.