The Coastal Road at Pre-Dawn Light

The yellow rotary telephone rests on the windowsill, the cord trailing to the edge. It weighs less than the glass cup I hold. The salt air smells like cinnamon and old coins. I look west toward the water, but the path I walked from is gone. The asphalt ends here, cut clean by dune grass that glows green in the half-light. I remember that distant porch, the one with the slate roof, though I have never seen it. The telephone rings once, a deep, muffled clack. I walk toward the railing, stepping on a patch of sand that feels warm, like a low fever. The water below is a flat, oily silver. A sign nailed to a piling lists names, the paint flaking off the letters—a date, a name, a date, a name—where the times should be. I press my palm against the cool metal of the railing, waiting for the sound of something familiar.